Sleight of the Yen
by Vera Lim
Summary: Magic comes in two different forms. That which you can see. And that which you can't. In his seventh year, Harry experiences magic that he can't see but is annoying him to great lengths, in the form of Draco Malfoy. Slash, R&R!
1. Bete Noire

**Author's Notes:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Furthermore, this story IS slash, so if this type of thing is not to your liking, please do not bother to read on and don't waste your or my time with a 'precocious' review. When I say that, yes, I am being sarcastic.

Bete Noire

If I close my eyes tight enough, the sunlight can't get in anymore.

And even though it still floods my body, if I wrap my arms around myself, it can't hit me anymore.

Or so I'd like to believe. Bugger.

_I'm nobody. Who are you?_

_Are you nobody, too?_

_Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!_

_They'd banish us, you know!_

Blaise Zabini ran into the sweltering Slytherin common room. It was about a hundred degrees outside, yet Draco and Pansy still sat in the cushy armchairs, reading quietly. Just looking at the two of them, sinking into the hot, scratchy material made Blaise feel even hotter. His own tie was dangling from his pockets and his robes were falling off his shoulders. He figured that the teachers wouldn't care anymore: it was, after all, the last day of school.

"Draco!" Blaise said, running up to the pair of them.

"Mmm?"

"There's something going on in the Great Hall. Come and see."

"_What _is it?" asked Draco, idly turning the page. More often than not, Zabini missed the mark of things entirely. It was better to make sure first.

"Come and see!"

"Just tell me what it is, first."

Right at that moment, Pansy made a scoffing noise in her throat. "It's stupid, is what it is. Dumbledore's idea of a _treat_ for the students."

Draco sat up with interest. The old man might be a senile bugger with his senses where his navel should be but he thought a treat from Dumbledore for the entire school (instead of just those damned Gryffindors) might prove to be very interesting indeed. And if nothing, at least he could exercise his authority of being Prefect one last time by yelling at a couple of snot-faced second years. OK, not so bad.

"Lead the way," he said, closing the book with a flourish.

Pansy saved herself from the cushy armchair that was about to swallow her. "But I _said_ it was rubbish!"

Draco yawned widely. "You think everything is rubbish. You thought the Prefect's bathroom was rubbish, but I proved you wrong, didn't I?"

Pansy turned pink at the rather embarrassing memory. "Shut up. _You_ didn't prove me wrong...Peter Attwood did." She put down her book and put her school shirt over tank top she had been lounging in. "Let's go."

"Peter Attwood? That tiny Ravenclaw?" Blaise said in confusion, as he followed Draco and Pansy.

Draco snorted. "Tiny in every sense of the word."

"Draco?" Pansy almost sighed.

"Yes?" said Draco sagely. He knew what was coming.

"Shut up."

"OK."

"So what exactly _is_ it?" asked Seamus uncertainly.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but it was Ron who answered first. "Actually, it's really cool! You look into it and you see whatever you want."

Seamus snorted. "Sounds stupid to me. Why would I want to see what I want? As if I don't already know."

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron. "Ron's a little less than efficient in explaining. When you stand within gazing perimeter, visions of your most profound aspiration come into view. Ones you never even knew you had. But -" she hesitated.

"But what?"

"But nothing of what you see necessarily comes true. It doesn't give truth. Or reality. And it's not even like a parallel reality. Nothing that is changed within the mirror exists in real life. What you see _could_ happen."

"So," Seamus turned to the giant ornate mirror, " in non-hermione-terms are you saying that if I looked in this mirror I would see exactly what I want, that I didn't know I wanted, but don't have?"

"Er," said Ron, "Sure."

"Wicked! So I'd be able to see myself sitting on a throne with skimpy girls fanning me and feeding me grapes while I watch a Muggle circus!"

Ron and Hermione stared.

"What?" shrugged Seamus. "Is wanting to see a Muggle circus that bad?"

Hermione tried to look scandalized but failed because Ron's gagging expression at Seamus's desires was too much for her.

"Didn't your dumpy mother ever tell you that if you make a face like that, it'd stay that way?"

Ron turned around in a flash. Hermione froze to the spot and shut her eyes as she recognized the slick voice. _Oh, great. This is exactly what we need on the last day of school. _

Ron's face twisted in anger. "Malfoy! Don't you dare say anything about my mother, you -"

"Although," continued Malfoy in a loud voice, "I suppose it must be an improvement to the usual. Let's ask the Mudblood. Is it an improvement, Mudblood?"

There was a pause as Pansy snickered and Hermione tried to ignore them.

"Apologize, Malfoy."

Hermione's eyes opened, even more painfully perhaps, than they had closed. _Harry._ She turned around, not even daring to do so. There, behind Malfoy and his two flunkies, stood Harry, eyes flashing dangerously, wand gripped tightly in hand. Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and Zabini all turned around to face Harry at the same time. They were on either side of him and both slightly shorter. _Like a really bad cowboy movie_, Hermione thought.

"No, you know what, Potter? I don't think I will," Malfoy said, with the air of one commenting on the weather. "But you're welcome to try and make me." Malfoy's eyes narrowed maliciously. Ooh, this would be fun.

Harry let himself get all worked up about Malfoy's crude expression as the latter stared him down. The injustice of Malfoy and just his mere presence was making the blood pound in his ear and it took his all to not launch himself upon the pointy, pasty boy in front of him. "I'm not going to try," Harry said quietly. His voice was strained and his knuckles were white from clenching his wand so tightly. "You're just going to do it."

At Malfoy's side, Blaise Zabini laughed unpleasantly.

Malfoy smirked. "Go on then, Potter. Make my day. No really, please go ahead."

Harry stared at Malfoy, a muscle in his jaw twitching like hell. Stupid Malfoy! It was only a bastard like him who would be...bastard-y enough to ruin the last day of school. Harry wished that he could have the nasty creature on his feet, in bloody hell and pain and begging for mercy while everyone looked on at his humiliation and they pointed and laughed and Malfoy would crawl at Ron's feet and...

His eyes narrowed painfully and Harry worked up an irrational idea that was aimed entirely at Malfoy's cowardice.

Or ego, whichever way you looked at it.

Draco fingered his Prefect badge. "If his Highness, the Boy-Who-Had-The-Slowest-Brain-Processing-Time, would perhaps make a move on, I could get this over with and on with more important things."

"_Serpensortia_."

Harry uttered the spell so quietly, it was barely audible. But it was enough.

Both Draco and Hermione's eyes widened as the words that left Harry's mouth struck a deep chord in the back of their minds. Hermione looked around and saw that everyone else was rather oblivious to what had just happened.

And perhaps what was going to.

_Oh Harry, don't be stupid..._

At the end of Harry's wand burst an ugly cobra, it's coils of sheen undulating slowly as it advanced forward, like a sickening hypnotic dance. Suddenly it stood stock still, the only sign of life, it's flickering tongue.

A sudden hissing sound filled the Entrance Hall, taking advantage of the extreme silence between the students and every nook and cranny of the ceiling above. The result was the hissing sounded out twice as loud than expected.

Draco stared hard at Harry, his eyes still as wide as ever. His brain stopped functioning as he watched the unearthly hissing issuing from Harry's mouth.

Of all the spells that Harry could have chosen, he picked this one. Draco's terror wasn't allowing him to figure out _why_ exactly; the cobra was suddenly moving, on Harry's command he supposed. Because Harry _was_ commanding it. With Parseltongue.

It snapped at Draco, revealing it's sharp fangs and moving forward as Pansy and Blaise backed away from it. Potter just wouldn't have the guts to do it. He was Harry Potter, after all, Great Protector of truth and goodness. The thing wouldn't actually _hurt _him.

But if it was one thing he had learnt from his father it was to never underestimate his enemy.

If it was Longbottom, maybe underestimation would be a little mandatory.

The hissing filled the Hall again, a little less ferociously perhaps, but egged the cobra on nonetheless. Hermione snapped out of her sudden stupor and let go of Ron's robes. She rushed a little in front of Malfoy, slightly annoyed at the gaping expressions of students around her. Malfoy was eyeing the thing in horror, his mouth wide open. Honestly, was she the only one sensing the impending danger here?

"Harry! Stop it, Harry, Malfoy isn't worth it," Hermione said earnestly

Harry ignored her.

Oh. Well, screw that plan.

The cobra stopped and blinked at her. Hermione looked at it nervously as Harry hissed at it once more. She took the sudden stop in its motion as the chance to talk.

"Harry Potter, you stop this instant! You're being stupid, with no regard for anyone but your own blind rage. You forget there are other people in this Hall too, hoping for a break from you and Malfoy so be merciful and give it to them! And you're shamelessly exploiting your own self, is this what you've come down to!"

Even through his shell shock, Draco spared half a thought on Hermione's always-sudden outbursts.

"_Finite Incantatum_." Hermione pointed to the malicious, hissing cobra before anyone could respond. It burst into black and gold sparks.

A pause.

Harry blinked and lowered his wand.

With a very business-like air, Hermione walked over to him and pulled the silent Harry with her towards Ron. As she passed Malfoy, she turned her nose in the air. Malfoy, Pansy and Zabini gaped at her in surprise as she sauntered passed them.

Ron came to, as Hermione pulled Harry along. "Well, it's not a free show, you know. Move along there, now," he yelled to a couple of frightened looking first years. And Seamus and Dean started shooing the large crowd away. Although, now most stayed because of the presence of the forgotten Mirror. But their attention was quickly diverted.

Hermione let go of Harry arm as she brought him to Ron. Ron gaped at his best friend. "Harry. That was...just...that...no need to get so angry, mate."

Harry snorted. "Your one to talk. If Hermione wouldn't have held you back, you'd be up to your own eyeballs in something we all call _deep shit_."

"What's that supposed to mean? I could take on Malfoy any day!"

Hermione ignored Ron. "Harry. It's not good to get so angry."

"Yeah well, I've had to deal with him all bloody year -"

"Yes, but you're not the only one, Harry. We _all_ hate Malfoy," Hermione cut in.

" -And I _did_ consider cold blooded murder but then I figured I'd let the snake do it for me instead. After all, it might affect my _school record_, murder might." Harry gave a little sanctimonious nod towards Hermione.

Ron burst out laughing.

Hermione hid her smile. At least he was back in good humor. "Oh, shut it, Ron. Harry, that's not funny, you know. That's not funny at all."

"Yeah, OK, I know. I won't get so worked up next time." He waved his hand carelessly. "And you're there when I do," he leaned in conspiratorially, "so I you can cover up all my footsteps once I'm done."

Hermione whacked him lightly.

Harry and Ron grinned. After all, it _was_ Hermione that came up with the master plans.

Suddenly, Professor McGonagall came into the Hall. "Attention all students. Gather around and listen very carefully."

The curious crowd of milling students ranging from every year gathered obediently up to Professor McGonagall.

"As you can see, Professor Dumbledore has set up in the great Hall a mirror. It is the end-of-year-treat that he had promised you all, and, needless to say, he has kept up to it. Now this mirror is no ordinary mirror. It's enchanted. Can anyone tell me how?"

Harry now shifted his attention to his right, where everyone seemed to be looking. He didn't need the dull shine of the surface or the letters upon the top of the carving to tell him what the mirror was. How many nights had he hungrily sat in front of it, gazing at his parents, trying to commit their every detail to memory? His mother's smile, the way in which his father's eyes crinkled up slightly when he grinned. Or the oval shape of his mother's face. Or his father's long nose, identical to his.

It was the Mirror of Erised.

He clearly remembered Dumbledore's words.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

Harry tore his gaze from the mirror as the students around him turned their attention back to him. He was surprised to find his hand in the air, as he almost never volunteered information.

"The happiest man on earth would look into the mirror and see himself exactly as he is. This mirror is known as the Mirror of Erised. When we look into it, the mirror shows us nothing more or less than our deepest desires." He glanced once more at the mirror, as though entranced.

Professor McGonagall nodded at his rare participation. "Very good, yes, Potter you're right."

"But," Harry continued slowly, "The mirror isn't a source of truth. And it's not necessarily reality. Men - men have gone mad and have wasted themselves staring into it."

Professor McGonagall gazed at him oddly and nodded once more. "Excellent, Potter. This is completely true." She smiled wryly. "I would award you House Points, but seeing as Gryffindor has already won the House Cup..." Her eyes twinkled at Harry. The Gryffindors grinned at her and Harry turned his head to shoot Malfoy a triumphant leer.

As usual, Draco was there to counter Harry's look with a sneer of his own.

"So, in short, the mirror shows us our deepest desires," Professor McGonagall coughed before she went on. "Our _fancies_."

Draco grinned. How very amusing. McGonagall was _trying _to be scandalous.

"So," she continued briskly, "form a line and you will all get a chance to look into the Mirror of Erised." More out of sheer curiosity than anything else, students got into as straight a line as they could, considering the heat.

"Ooh. I can't wait to look into the Mirror," Hermione confided to Harry and Ron. "I wonder what I'll see."

"Probably your marriage to Madam Pince," snorted Ron.

"Ron! Honestly, just because we both appreciate magical literature as a medium doesn't say anything at all," Hermione said waspishly. "And I'll have you know that if I weren't on such good terms with her, the Restricted Section would still be _quite_ Restricted."

"Well I never asked you to go looking in there, did I now?"

Harry rolled his eyes as his two best friends started to argue again. It ticked him off to no end that even after they had reached a point in their argument, they'd still continue affectionately, though there was _obviously_ no use for it. He didn't understand why they didn't just come out and say it. It wasn't as if they had to contend with being gay or anything complicated like that.

" - Yes but _you_ were the one who said the Muggle Prime Minister was a Squib. And that turned out to be collywobbles, didn't it?" Hermione was saying now.

_Collywobbles? _

"Well, it was _your _fault for starting that entire discussion. If you didn't comment on Errol, I would've shut up and said nothing at all," Ron said nonchalantly.

_From Errol to the Muggle Prime Minister. That's it, they are officially bloody mental._

"Hey, I heard that Harry. Who're you calling mental?" Ron said as he tore off from the conversation, er, argument, with Hermione.

Harry smiled weakly and shook his head. Apparently he'd said it aloud.

Seamus turned back and grinned at them. "Alright. Wish me luck."

"Er, for what?" Ron asked.

But Seamus had already stepped up to the Mirror. As Dean engaged them in conversation, Harry let his attention wander to the Mirror. After Seamus was done, it would be Dean, and then Hermione. Then Ron. Then...him.

All of a sudden, Harry didn't want to be here. He didn't want to have to look into the Mirror. It wasn't as though he was frightened to see them - again. But -

But what?

But something. He didn't know. All he knew, was that he had to leave, had to get out of the stuffy Entrance Hall. Because if he stayed here one minute longer, he would surely collapse and then stupid, git-y Malfoy would never let him hear then end of it.

A combination wave of nausea and claustrophobia overtook Harry's senses and he ducked out of line, not daring to speak. Trusting that Ron and Hermione wouldn't miss him too much, he walked past the swiftly growing line, loosening his tie and shrugging off his robes as he went. Reaching the stairs, he broke out into a sort of desperate jog with no real destination. He'd deal with what the bloody hell was going on later. Right now, he just needed to get away.

Only one person noticed. With narrowed eyes.

Draco Malfoy.

"Harry, mate, where'd you go off to?" Ron said as he entered the Gryffindor Common Room. He flung his robe on one of the tables and joined his best friend on the cushy sofa.

"Oh. I -" Damn it. He hadn't thought up an excuse yet.

Just then, Hermione came in as well. "Harry. We were looking everywhere. Where were you?"

**_Why_** _were you looking everywhere?_ Harry wanted to ask. But he couldn't. So instead he said, "Oh."

Hermione flopped down on the other side of Harry and leaned into the squishy sofa. "Bloody hell, I'm knackered."

Ron stared at her. "Bloody hell? That's it. I was right! You're becoming way too influenced by me and Harry."

Harry noted that they seemed to not want an answer from him, so he gratefully shut up. He leaned back and closed his eyes as well. It was a nice feeling to sit here. Nice but strange. It had been a hard five years and Harry could hardly believe he'd made it this far. Alive. They all sat together in comfortable, companionable silence. Dull afternoon sunlight was filtering into the gloriously empty Common Room and for some reason Harry thought this was the perfect moment for someone to say something philosophical.

"Let's make a pact," he said.

Hermione turned her head towards him. "A pact?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you don't know what a pact is. Even _I_ know what a pact is. Even _Crabbe _knows what a pact is, O-Esteemed-Walking-Human-Dictionary."

Hermione sighed. "Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"OK."

"What were you saying Harry?" Hermione asked again.

Harry sighed inwardly. Truth was, he was still slightly at unrest about the Mirror. He wanted to see them. But not with everyone looking. He wanted to see them alone. It was _his_ sole time with them. What if he got emotional (oh dear god, he hoped not!) He didn't need any more people ogling at him, thank you very much. "I said, I have to go and pack. See you guys later."

Hermione said nothing as she watched Harry get up and leave. Oh dear. She slapped Ron's arm.

"Ow!" Ron said, rubbing it. "What in blue blazes was that for?"

"For being insensitive and ruining the moment like you always do," she said as she stalked off to the girls' dorms.

"Hey! What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Leaving a very confused Ron, who was still cradling his arm.

Harry stayed awake as he heard the last trickle of people filter into their dorms for the last night of the year. At first, he had panicked, thinking that perhaps Seamus, Dean and Neville would want to stay up, as this was their last night together. But, thankfully, they had all fallen asleep an hour earlier.

And now, at about 2 a.m in the morning, Harry had come up with a little plan, the result of a sudden whim.

He wanted to go and see his parents. For the last time.

For the first time.

So, just before curfew, Harry had checked that the Mirror was still there before making his way back to the Tower. Then he'd got into bed, feigning exhaustion. Once everyone was asleep, he figured he would don his trusty Invisibility Cloak and leave. Considering the Mirror was still there.

Harry drew the curtains of his four-poster and silently stepped out. He shot a tentative look at Ron, who was snoring peacefully. He remembered, with a smile, how he had thought that the Mirror was a device to look at people's family members.

But Ron had seen something completely different.

The Fat Lady eyed him suspiciously, even though Harry was well under the Cloak. What with him sneaking out so often, she had long since come to realize that _someone_ in the Tower must be the culprit. Now all she had to do was figure out whom; for no apparent reason really. It would just give her something to occupy her otherwise dreary time, with.

As was his habit, Harry slowly made his way down to the Entrance Hall. Even though he was well under the Cloak, he didn't want to have to run into a) Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, whom he was _sure_ could see through invisibility cloaks and b) Snape, who was already on to him.

The Entrance Hall was dimly lit with only a few of the bright fire sconces on the walls for light. The moonlight was filtering in from the open door to the Great Hall and Harry could just make out the dull glint of the brass mirror. Shrugging his Cloak off, he reached into his pocket to pull out his wand.

The moonlight made everything seem a little too surreal.

"_Lumos,_" he whispered.

All at once, a bright light stemmed from the tip of his wand, like the backside of a glowworm. Harry stepped in front of the mirror, his breath only slightly hitched in anticipation -

His parents.

He could see them again.

And perhaps they'd say something to him. Like. Like at the graveyard.

_Stop, stop, stop. They're not real, they can't **speak**_ _to you. And let's just leave the graveyard alone, alright?_

Lovely. Now he was talking to himself. Just lovely.

Harry took a tentative step forward and -

Shit!

Malfoy.

There was Malfoy's reflection in the Mirror. He must have followed Harry all the way here. And Harry hadn't even noticed! The blond git was staring defiantly back at him and the malicious grin said "_Hah! Even if it **was**_ _the end of the year, I still managed to catch you at something."_

Shit shit shit. Double shit. No, quadruple shit.

Slowly, Harry wheeled around. He was done for. Bloody, nosey Malfoy. Why couldn't he keep his stupid, long nose out of Harry's business. Trying to think up a worthy insult, Harry turned around.

But the Hall was empty.

The sconces on the wall didn't whoosh with a sudden breeze, as he knew they would if someone had been there only moments before.

His rippling silver Cloak had not been disturbed by anything.

Harry's mind was tripping over itself as it worked painfully fast. What the bloody hell was going on? What was Malfoy trying to pull?

One minute he was there, and then, very deftly Harry had to admit, he was gone. Harry stared wildly around the Entrance Hall. There were no nooks and crannies in the Entrance Hall that Malfoy could hide in that wasn't already bathed in moonlight. Not really expecting him to be there, Harry left his Cloak and peeked into the Great Hall.

But all he saw were the stars twinkling at him from the ceiling. He scowled at them for no particular reason.

Bloody Malfoy. What a complete, bloody, sodding -

Wait a minute.

Harry approached the Mirror carefully, his wand tip still alight. Yes, there was his reflection as it was supposed to be. He was looking pale and vulnerable in his oversized jumper. There was his arm holding his wand. And his unruly hair making for weird shadows in the moonlight.

And then, the reflection in the Mirror, rippled a little. At first, Harry had thought nothing had changed. There was the Entrance Hall, the beams of moonlight, the flickering sconces on the wall. The open door to the Great Hall.

But on closer inspection, he saw that the figure in the reflection wasn't him anymore.

It was Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, dressed in full Hogwarts robes, fingering his Prefect badge as he often did nowadays.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no _- went the chant in Harry's head.

He whipped around once more to see - surprise, surprise - nobody, no Malfoy, nothing.

Yet when he cringingly turned back to the Mirror, there was Malfoy. With his idiotic grin. Bastard. _Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard_, the chant in Harry's head changed.

How could it be? How could it be that this was happening!

Malfoy wasn't here. Now. He just couldn't be. Unless he had an Invisibility Cloak of his own. But no, that couldn't be right either. Any normal answer to his question seemed to elude Harry as most of his burning questions had a tendency to do (like _why_ was Voldemort after him in the first place!) That question was highly inconsequential now.

Unlike before, Harry's mind was now working very slowly, almost unwilling to take in what seemed so completely _stupid. Im-bloody-possible!_

The thing he desired most was -

Draco Malfoy.

Author's Notes: Oh dear. Hah. Reviews are appreciated, even one word like "urgh", "blah", "super cool", "have my love child!" whatever. Many thanks.


	2. Time and Space

Time and Space

Ron rolled his socks into a ball, the way his mum had taught him ages ago and flung them into his trunk. Dean and Seamus were in the showers and Neville was downstairs collecting the books and quills he had forgotten in haste of the exams. God, those exams. Ron had thought that the OWL's were hard enough. But then, sixth year exams had crept up on him and –

Well, actually, they shouldn't have _crept_ on him, really, not with Hermione reminding him every other day since the start of the year.

But, whatever. He wasn't about to admit that. Did he really _want _to be fixed with Hermione's glare all train ride?

Ron looked around and sighed. He collected all the washed and folded but then-flung-around-again underwear. Seamus just _had_ to pounce on Harry last evening. And Harry just _had _to retaliate by flinging Ron's underwear around.

Fine, whatever.

Actually, he knew he should've packed last night but, honestly, he couldn't be arsed to that. He could almost _feel_ Hermione's glare on him, her mouth set into a crisp, fine line and the way her nose crinkled slightly because of her eyes narrowing –

Wait a minute. He could _see _her.

"Ron, where's Harry?" Hermione huffed as she tried to ignore the loads of clothes still needing to be packed.

Ron grinned at her through Dean's bedside mirror. He could see her reflection perfectly, the way she was biting her tongue at his obvious lack of packing last night. "Probably down at breakfast, where else?"

"Well, he's not."

"Not what?"

Hermione sighed in exasperation. Couldn't Ron see she was impatient, in a hurry and obviously very worried about Harry! "Not down at breakfast! I was there, I should know," she said answering Ron's unasked question. He shut his mouth. "No one has seen him since last night."

Ron felt a little twinge of annoyance as he bent over to pick up his crusty packet of Every Flavor Beans. Hermione wouldn't give two hoots if no one had seen _him_ all morning.

Oh, dear. There was his evil, jealous side popping up again. Ron sighed inwardly. He did love Harry and all, and wanted him to be safe. And he also knew he was being very irrational conjuring up such thoughts of envy. He didn't mean to at all. After all, Harry was his best mate whose life was obviously in much more danger than Ron's own; no sarcasm intended. He shouldn't be thinking such things. Ron suppressed the guilty feeling by reasoning with himself; it wasn't everyday he complained. He had earned it. Then he shook his head. _Very stupid._

"Ron! Are you listening to me!"

Ron looked up from examining his Beans. "Not really, 'Mione."

"Ron! This is serious! Anything could have happened to Harry. And what on earth _are_ those?" Hermione added, wrinkling her nose in distaste at his packet of Beans. "Not Every Flavor Beans, are they?"

Ron poked one last looked at them and threw them under Seamus's bed. "Well, they _were_ Every Flavor Beans. But they've morphed into something else." Before Hermione could open her mouth again, he added, "And will you please just relax about Harry? It's only seven in the morning, a whole bloody _hour_ before breakfast. Harry's Firebolt isn't here, which means he's probably gone for a bit of a ride before we have to leave. It's not like he'll get to ride much this summer, and I'm sure he's savoring it. I'll be back, I've got to go and wrestle Seamus back for the belt of my bathrobe. Stupid bugger."

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it as she watched Ron's retreating back make it's way to the bathroom. _Stupid Ron_, she thought affectionately. He really was a clueless idiot. Trust him to actually be listening to her. Ron, with an ear for Hermione and skills of deduction.

Go figure.

It was five a.m. in the morning and Draco Malfoy couldn't get back to sleep. He didn't have to be awake for another two hours! And he wasn't exactly a morning, wake-up-and-smell-the-sunshine person either. He was more an I-can't-be-arsed-to-wake-up-that-early-and-have-the-bloody-sun-in-my-face type of person. And waking up this early always made him grumpy.

Well, more than usual.

He had been awake ever since about an hour ago and for no particular reason either. All of a sudden, he had just felt his deep sleep waning and before he knew it, his eyes were wide open and they burnt every time he tried to close them.

Realizing that all hope for any sleep was slowly dwindling away, he wriggled into a turtleneck (it got bloody cold in the dungeons) and in one silent movement, was out the door.

Once out into the dungeons, Draco wondered at where he should go. It wasn't as though he made pre-dawn trips of this nature all the time. And he didn't want to _savor the last morning at Hogwarts._ Those kinds of things were for certain loser, scarhead, orphans he knew. With glasses. And impeccably messy hair.

Draco put his feet on auto and thought about yesterday. He was fascinated really, with the way Harry had conjured –

Harry.

Harry.

Potter.

There was said scarhead, running the length of the Quidditch pitch. Draco stepped over the parapet and walked towards the wood and stone railing. What on earth was he doing out this early, running like he had a mad Hippogriff on his tail?

Draco leaned on the railing and folded his arms leisurely. Perhaps, in all the fierce running, Potter would trip and fall headfirst, break his glasses, and end up with a bloody nose. Draco could do with some mild entertainment.

He squinted against the slight light of the red rising sun to try to get a closer look at Potter.

There was an expression on Potter's face. It was beyond anything Draco had observed before. It was pain, hatred, determination, all in one. Sweat glistened and dropped, as if in slow motion, down Potter's body and though there was nothing even remotely attractive or fetching about the wonder boy, Draco couldn't explain why he couldn't take his eyes off him. With every step Potter took, as he ran, Draco could almost _feel_ the fluidity of Potter's leg muscle's working to keep up with every new step that it conquered. It was a constant rhythm, the movement of Potter's hands propelling him forward, to the liquid movement of his legs. His hair, streaked with mud and sweat, shook defiantly, unwilling to slow down, so that Harry was a black and red streak in the rising sunlight.

It was as though he were saying something; Draco couldn't make out quite what.

And all of a sudden, Potter slowed down and came to a stop. It was all over too soon.

Draco watched, not in a taunting manner, but almost as if he were puzzled. His eyes slightly narrowed, and his shoulders relaxed as he straightened himself and nonchalantly tried to decipher Potter's movements.

Harry was leaning over, hands on his shins and panting hard. He looked desperate and angry, like he was trying to cleanse himself; as if he thought if he ran fast enough, the wind speed would eradicate something. Well, Potter always was a senseless idiot. Draco raised one eyebrow as Harry panted painfully and stood up. He looked around, the slight breeze tousling his already ridiculously messy hair.

And then, his eyes fell upon Draco.

Draco flinched at the sudden, burning glare. But he didn't break off the sudden gaze. He held Potter's stare and for once, the latter's face didn't twist into the expression of hatred that usually dawned upon his features. Potter's look was a surge of nothingness and Draco's was as well. He didn't know _why_ in Merlin's name he was standing here focusing upon what he thought was the scum of the earth. It was actually a little fun. Like a challenge to see who would look away first.

But it was unnerving.

Suddenly, Harry's expression turned to that familiar one of loathing and Draco breathed an inward sigh of relief. All this coincidental staring was leading to question not only himself but Potter. Now that Potter's face was back to its normal Bastard-Malfoy state, thought, all was right with the world.

Without a second glance, Potter broke off and jogged away to the school entrance.

Damn. Draco rubbed the back of his neck. What the hell had Potter just done?

Well, at least Draco had held the gaze. He hadn't backed down. Hah! Take that stinking Potter!

…But he still felt like he was missing the mark of things. What had just happened?

Harry came up to his dorm. The Common Room was thankfully quiet and the sixth year boy's dorm was abandoned. Everyone must be down at breakfast. Harry came to his own packed trunk and neatly made bed. There, in neat, straight writing was a note from Hermione.

_Harry,_

_We're down at breakfast. Don't be late for the train. We've taken Hedwig and Pig with us. _

_See you soon._

_Hermione and Ron._

God, he must have the best friends in the whole entire world. The sudden upsurge of sheer love and gratefulness towards his two best friends was slightly overshadowed by the blatant disgust he was feeling. Harry looked himself in the wardrobe mirror. His sleeveless black tee was soaked with sweat and his red track shorts were muddy. His face was red with all the exertion.

After what happened with the Mirror, Harry had wandered around in a state of shell shock for a bit. Dazed and rather confused, as though someone had made to knock him out, Harry somehow reached, of all places, the Slytherin dungeons. He hadn't been here since he was in second year, the time that he and Ron were trying to get information out of Malfoy.

Ugh, Malfoy.

The last place he needed to be was the Slytherin dungeons, the very mark of all things Malfoy. Harry didn't even know why the hell he had gone there. Swearing never again to put his legs on cruise control, he tottered back to Gryffindor Tower.

He had crept in and watched Ron and Neville snore for a bit. But he couldn't bear to be next to them. He felt…contaminated. He felt dirty, not worthy of sitting in the midst of his (sexually) cleansed friends, on the clean white sheets, breathing chaste air such as this. It was five a.m. in the morning and since he couldn't think of anything else, Harry thought he'd go running. Maybe it'd take his mind off things.

It only helped clear his mind a bit. All the while, all Harry could see was Malfoy in front of him, smirking and stroking his prefect badge.

Malfoy was the guy version of a cow. Wait, what was that? A bull? An ox? A buffalo? Well, it didn't matter. He was foul enough to be either. Heck, he was foul enough to be Bobutuber pus.

With ill thoughts such as these, Harry couldn't begin to imagine his desires having anything to do with Malfoy unless you counted his desire to give the blond fucker a good kick up the arse.

Harry had never wished ill of anyone; not unless you counted the Dursley's, Snape, Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy –

Blast. Malfoy again! He just wouldn't bloody leave him alone!

Harry put on speed painfully fast, hoping his screaming muscles would divert his attention from Malfoy-ridden thoughts.

But no. Even as he stopped and tried to catch his breath there was, out of all 786 students, _Draco-sodding-Malfoy_.

_ The Hogwarts Train, 9:16 a.m _

" – and so I'm expecting you know what to do. Any problems, you can call Cho or me. Otherwise, we expect you to keep an eye on your shifts."

Draco snorted. Jesus, this coming from a Mudblood. A Mudblood Headboy! What _was_ the world coming to? Luckily, everyone was getting up so the scuffling covered up his noise of contempt. He made his way to the sliding doors of the lavish Prefect compartment and wandered down the narrow corridors of the train. Round-faced first years were poking their heads out of their compartments and one look from Draco sent them back in again.

Usually, he'd have walked back to his own compartment and gathered Crabbe or Goyle. Goodness knew those two needed to get out more often. Even if it _was_ just in the train.

Within a span of two minutes, and no commotion in sight, Draco had reached the end of the carriage. He looked through the window of the door leading out of the carriage. Through the glass of the opposite door, he saw more people cruising around the adjoining carriage; it was as though it was a different world.

Eyes narrowed, as only a Malfoy's could, he opened the door and let himself out of his own carriage. The train gave a sudden lurch and Draco's hand flew to the slippery handle of the door. Jesus, Martin the Mad Muggle made things like this look easy. Not that he had _read_ Martin the Mad Muggle at any point of time in his life.

Slipping his foot on the small slit of metal that connected the two trains together, he placed his hand on the handle of the door and turned himself to face the door he had just come out of. He stared back to where he had been a moment before. Pansy came out of one of the compartments, laughing stupidly at something Blaise had just told her. She knocked on the compartment right beside hers, and Theodore Nott poked his head out in response.

Turning away from the scene, Draco twisted his body so that he was facing the door of the next carriage. Keeping a firm hand on the handle behind him, Draco deftly placed one foot on the other side of the metal and outstretched his hand, successfully catching the opposite door handle. Pulling himself over, Draco sidled to one side so he could open the door, step in and no one need be the wiser.

With an air of suave grandeur, he surreptitiously stepped into the adjoining carriage, checked his hair, brushed down his robes and made sure his badge wasn't marred. Far be it for a Malfoy to be anything less than the epitome of polished fashion.

No one noticed his sudden intrusion, so Draco strolled calmly down the length of the train. He could make out Hannah Abbott's timid voice trying to sound stern and stop Colin Creevey, it seemed, from taking pictures.

Draco smirked and kept going. The bloody fifth year was a voyeur! He shuddered, as he thought of what Creevey must be taking pictures of now. _OK, Draco, that topic is completely off limits._

As he slowly made his way through the compartments, he could hear snippets of happy conversations. Warm breeze floated from the open windows into the compartments. From the delicious smell that rode on the breeze, Draco was guessing the witch who took care of the food-trolley had already been past here. Even though it was a bit too bright for his liking in the carriage, Draco couldn't help but relax in the warm atmosphere.

Suddenly, he heard a savage groan and an annoyingly familiar voice floating down the length of the carriage. The high voice was reprimanding the person who was groaning.

" –and I really think you should behave more responsibly. You're prefect after all and there's no reason to–"

"Hermione?" Weasley cut in.

"_Yes,_ Ron?"

"…….You suck."

Draco rolled his eyes. Of _course_ Weasley was too stupid to think up a better comeback. And that groan could have only been his; Draco didn't know how he had missed it. But it seemed that they were heading here. The last thing Draco needed was a confrontation with a person who couldn't afford socks and a buck-toothed know-it-all. Not to mention, he didn't have Crabbe and Goyle on him.

He was surrounded, of course, by compartments with no place to go except forward (and risk touching the Mudblood if the train lurched, eurgh!) or back the way he came. And that was no fun at all.

Which left him with the only option of ducking into a random compartment while praying to merciful Lord above that it wasn't Colin Creevey's.

"Oh, Harry, there you are. We were so worried about you. What kept you?" Hermione said in welcome, as Harry entered the compartment.

"'Mione, will you stop being his mother please? Or actually, will you stop being _my_ mother please? You sound just like her," Ron commented idly. To Harry he said, "Hello, mate. We figured you were savoring a bit of last minute air time on your broom."

"Oh. Yeah, I was," said Harry, grateful that he was being supplied with an excuse. Good thing he had packed his Firebolt last night. Tired from this morning's excursion and the strain of the visionary encounter with someone he would rather _not_ think about at the moment, Harry slouched down on the seat. Ron was bustling around, looking for his Prefect's badge. Hermione, however, took a careful seat across from Harry and watched him closely.

More to avoid Hermione's intent gaze than anything else, Harry shut his eyes.

_Malfoy. _

_Again. Argh!_

"Harry?"

"Yes, 'Mione. I ate breakfast this morning," Harry replied to the unasked question while his eyes remained closed.

Ron laughed. "We'll be back soon, mate. Just instructional stuff."

Harry merely waved his hand in response and (thankfully) missed the look of disdained amusement Hermione was shooting him.

Once they left, Harry took off his robes and loosened his tie. Curling up on the velvet seats, Harry leaned against the window and stared out at the flashing scenery outside. The morning sun was letting loose a bronze glow and making Harry feel more exhausted than he already was. And he hadn't slept well at all this morning. Or all night come to think of it.

He would just settle down for a quick nap…..

The slamming of the compartment door jerked Harry out of a thick sleep whose comatose side effects lingered long after the sleeper was awake.

"Ron, your back so soon?" Harry asked of the presence in the compartment.

Draco froze. Oh shit. Shit. Shit, shit shit and fuck! This was worse than bloody Creevey's compartment. This wasn't Creevey's compartment. This was….though it seemed impossible to imagine. But Draco couldn't mistake that voice for anything. How many times had he wanted to hit the speaker of it? How many times had he heard it taunt his name and retaliated?

Goddamn Potter.

"Ron?" Harry opened his eyes and blearily looked around. Why wasn't Ron answering him?

His eyes landed upon a tall figure, poised at the handle of the compartment door. They looked as if they were about to launch out of the compartment on a minutes notice.

Draco froze, trying to ignore Potter. It was so loud outside of the compartment that Draco was straining to hear if Granger and Weasley had passed yet. He knew, from the level of voice and tone that Harry must've been sleeping on the seats. If he didn't answer and Granger and Weasley stopped dawdling, he could leave without Potter even noticing.

Harry sat up carefully. Loud, happy jeering was filtering in from the carriage through to his compartment. Whoever the person was at the door, it wasn't Ron and they were suspicious, as they weren't responding. Harry had had far too much experience with unknown people to not be wary. He slowly picked up his robes and softly drew his wand out from the depths. In three quick strides he was beside the figure, his wand tip threateningly jabbing at the nape of their neck.

"Turn around slowly," Harry instructed.

The figure tensed and did as he said.

Harry sharply drew his wand back as he took in the blond hair, silver eyes and trademark smirk. It was….no. It _was_!

Malfoy.

Malfoy was smirking at him. Harry knew he must look like an idiot standing there, gaping at Malfoy as though he had grown an extra head.

"Good Lord, Potter. Are you _trying_ to look like a mutated troll? Because, let me assure you, it's working." Harry didn't respond. He subconsciously put his wand down and took a tentative step back. Malfoy frowned at this. What was wrong with the idiot? Why wasn't something fierce coming out of his mouth? Why wasn't he whipping out his wand, malice in his eyes, promises of hexes streaming out of his mouth if Malfoy didn't leave?

More out of curiosity than actual concern, Draco moved forward. "Potter? What's wrong with you?"

Harry's mind fumbled wildly as he tried to lengthen the distance between Malfoy and himself. He didn't know what the hell was going on, what with the Mirror and everything else but he didn't want to think about right now. And the last thing he wanted to encounter was Malfoy that would only spur his thought process and slow it down at the same time.

Was that even possible?

He made his way back as far as he could before hitting the window. Draco stopped in shock that wasn't very well hidden. What the fuck was going on? Why was Potter behaving as if he were a contagious disease? Not that Potter hadn't told Draco that he _was_ a contagious disease before. But why did the stupid sod keep moving back?

He idly took in Potter's ill-hidden panic and scruffy shirt. So he _had_ been sleeping.

Draco noted the blank look on Potter's face that rivaled the expression in his eyes; swimming with alarm tinged confusion. Dimly, he realized that the loud talking and laughing had now subsided and the compartment was quiet once more.

It was unnerving.

Draco couldn't decipher Potter's sudden behaviour towards him but all he wanted to do was leave. Yet he couldn't. He just stared in amazement at Potter who looked peaky and ready to throw himself out of the window at a moment's notice if Draco were to take one more step forward.

Not that the idea of Potter doing so was a bad one. He just didn't want to have cold-blooded murder taint his record as of yet.

"You should go," said Harry, his voice a cold whisper.

Draco snapped out of his observant reverie and blinked in confusion at the tone of Potter's voice.

It was desperate.

It was pleading.

It was pleading?

"Go," Harry said once more. His voice wasn't tinged with malice as it was supposed to be. Just dread.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes but spared Harry the appraising look. Then, in a swish of black robes, he was gone. Harry waited a moment and then slumped down to the floor, his face flushing with relief and deep embarrassment. He didn't know what had come over him. He knew that if Malfoy had chosen to taunt him, attack him even, he wouldn't be in exactly the dandiest of positions.

_Everything was fine until that **stupid** Mirror_, Harry thought viciously. If he did have a…..a…._oh God, just say it Potter_…..a _thing_ for Malfoy why was he fine until this morning? Where as now his brain functions seemed to cease.

Time. That was what Harry needed. Time and space apart. Too much Malfoy-loathing on the brain must have done this. As he got up and curled up on the seats once more, Harry wondered if the Mirror showing Malfoy meant that Harry wanted to do something drastic. Like kill him? He prodded his feelings. Was his hatred for Malfoy rooted so deep that he wanted to take his life away?

Somehow, Harry didn't think so. He might be able to see Malfoy tortured….but he didn't want to see him dead.

He had seen enough of that for one lifetime.

And with this last thought, Harry fell asleep to the only place that Malfoy didn't dwell; his dreams.

Yet.

Outside, Malfoy could only register one thought as he moved quickly towards the exit of the carriage.

What the devil was up with Potter!

There was something definitely up. And he was damned if he wasn't going to find out what.


	3. Gravitas in Grey

Gravitas in Grey

_Draco stepped in front of the Mirror. _

The rain was coming down in pressing torrents and lashing as if it were solid upon the windows of the grand sitting room. Draco willed his shoulder blades to relax; he could feel every pellet as it hit the window above him.

He struck a key of fancy and started to whisk slender, pale fingers across the piano. Each note resounded, soft and with a muted quality like the rain outside. There was a point in time where indignation was all he could feel for anything that came his way. Indeed, he had been a petulant little boy. And slightly chubby as well.

Nowadays, however, Draco found that he was much too drained for a front of affectation. He regarded everything as a petty amusement, something that wasn't really half worth his bother but that he spared a thought on anyway. Just because.

He brought his left hand in a single C chord while his right continued hitting sharps and flats and other keys, the same muted glow holding the notes.

So, similarly, was he to view the Mirror as amusement? A joke?

_It was blurry and he could make out the blatant fingerprint marks of what he surmised to be months of no one cleaning it. A sudden image of grubby five-year-old's hands and grandmothers with lacy gloves, whose houses smelt perpetually of cats, grabbing at the surface of the mirror crossed his mind. Draco recoiled slightly. _

_What? So he liked cleanliness, so sue him._

_The Mirror had shown him the first image. Yes, there were, unusually, three more to come. _

A house elf padded silently across the room, its toga flapping out from behind it. Heaving a footstool that it pushed against the side of the piano, it hoisted itself up, expertly handling the hot teapot of steeped tea, just as Master Draco liked it. Upon the shining surface of the piano was a tray of milk, sugar and an empty teacup that had most certainly been full before. The house elf poured the tea into the waiting cup, its ears perking up to the deep strums of an alternating chord so skillfully played by her master.

"Master Draco, you is playing beautiful."

"Have you kept the milk and sugar?" Draco asked, closing his eyes.

"Yes, Master."

"Very well."

The house elf bowed low and left the room as silently as it had come.

Pushing up the sleeves of his soft, black, cashmere sweater, Draco swiveled gracefully to the tray and the waiting tea. As he poured a little milk into the cup he turned his attention to Potter instead. The Mirror would have to wait.

Draco stirred in his sugar, careful not to let it chink on the side of the cup. That was rude. He spared half a glance at the summer storm, then wandered to one of the sitting room chairs.

After he had returned from school, it had not been his mother who awaited him at the station as he had anticipated. It had been one of his father's advisors, no doubt a dabbler in the dark arts himself. His mother had taken sick.

He had rushed to her bedside and remained there for a total of two weeks while she coughed herself into raspy submission. He clung on to a piece of silken nightdress that poked out the side of the thick blankets that kept the grand bedroom forever hot. He didn't mind the heat. Who else did he have, after all, other than his mother? Draco was not ashamed to admit that he was scared. He had worked himself into an obsessive frenzy, insisting that he check all the food, water, clothing, and healing potions that came his mother's way. Surely, life's supports couldn't all fall away all at once?

Nursing his mother back to health had been as though he himself had gotten up from a head cold. Often times, he awoke, cold on the floor covered in feverish sweat. His mother's hand dangled out of the blanket and he would take it and return back to his fitful sleep.

What did this all have to do with Potter? Patience, says Draco. Patience.

It was during this time that one thought kept returning. He might be an orphan. He might lose his mother. What would it be like to lose parents? To have them and not have them anymore? Were there special customs for orphans? Potter was an orphan. Did he go through day after day of this uncertainty weighing down upon as it did now upon Draco?

After the nightmarish blur of the first two weeks, Draco had spent the better part of the last two weeks with a sole piece of parchment on his desk. It was blank. He was still waiting for a spark of inspiration that would bring him his customary sharp witticism and cutting comments that would actually be asking (like some absurd code) Potter, what the hell was biting his arse?

So far, so bad. It seemed the more he thought about it, the less sense he made. It had dwindled from Draco being able to put it away as Potter's customary insanity to actually questioning and caring _why_ because no one could be _that_ weird, not even Potter. Most importantly it had not been the expression in his eyes nor the tautness of his face but the dread in Potter's voice. The pleading in his voice. When had that started!

Draco sipped his steaming tea carefully. The blasted house elf had made it too hot again and, since he actually needed his tongue to taste dinner tonight, he drank slowly.

Draco thought it was distinctly unfair. He rather liked his rivalry with Potter; it gave his mind moments to breach the mundane. There was always all sorts of nasty comments to shoot at Potter and the rest of the time could be put into good use with him thinking up those very responses for the next time they happened to meet. Potter had presented a challenge from Day One and now, like some spineless coward, he was stepping down, leaving Draco like a fool. _Some Gryffindor_, Draco thought.

Who was Potter to just take that away from him? He had _no right_ to coax Draco into something and then pull it out from under his nose. Whatever _it _may be.

He got up and placed the half empty cup on the silver tray. He absently noted the Malfoy emblem emblazoned on it. Draco hit a high note of the piano in frustration.

And then, in the remnants of the tingling note, it came to him.

"_Happy Birthday to me…..Happy Birthday…Harry…_"

Harry whispered these words in the darkness, the tune in time with the ticking of his watch. Hermione had given him one from Swatches London for Christmas in fifth year, after his other one had stopped working at the Triwizard Tournament.

It was twelve o'clock and Harry Potter was seventeen. 17. 1-7.

For one wild moment, Harry wondered and wished his parents were here, and what they would think of him turning 17? He was a young man now, old enough to Apparate and he could drive a car if he wanted. Or a motorbike, Sirius would like that. He wasn't sure, though, that he was exactly the motorbike type.

The cobblestone road gave way to plain, weathered tarmac, as the quaint inns, mouldy shops and aging church fell behind him. A light breeze picked up as the shelter of these buildings faded away and Harry continued down the road, pulling out a hand-drawn map and his wand.

"_Lumos_," he whispered again. There was no one there for miles but the muting darkness, punctured by only the moonlight, told him he should keep quiet.

The map pointed north, the road he was on taking him straight to his destination. He could see faint lights as the town fell away behind him and the adjoining sectors of settlement began. He peered further down the road and, at the top of a little hill could see a figure standing in long robes with a pointed hat.

_Good_, thought Harry, _he's here already._

Harry quickened his step now, his pulse beating the steady ticking of his watch. What would he see? Would there _be_ anything to see? Maybe, like a fairy tale, the house would be erect again. Or, perhaps, a strange mist would surround it, protecting all the crashed memories within and preserving them like some kind of plastic wrap?

Plastic wrap, Harry mused, was not actually very useful though. It got all over your hands and kept sticking to itself and everything else except the food it was supposed to cover.

_Oh my goodness. I'm rambling. Shut Up, Harry._

Honestly, he could be such a ponce sometimes.

He climbed the small hill, the gradation of the slope not very steep at all and was finally there. Harry was so excited, he forgot to look at the person beside him.

"Many Happy Returns of the Day, Harry," said a voice.

Harry jerked and tore his attention away from what he couldn't see. There was an opening to what seemed like a tunnel or a mouth of a cave.

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," said Harry, barely able to keep the anticipation out of his voice. "Thank You," he added to the birthday wish.

Dumbledore led Harry through the opening, which wasn't a tunnel at all but a very short enclosed area that opened up to –

"Harry. Welcome to Godric's Hollow."

Harry's jaw opened in disbelief. The non-descript opening of the mini cave had led them to another settlement entirely. There were only three houses, from what Harry could make out, each with ample lawn space and spread far apart from each other. The moon shone more brightly here and, despite the obvious sign of destruction, the trees seemed to twinkle. It was an entirely different place.

He imagined that at one point of time, it must have been rather nice. Now, however, weeds and ivy threatened to engulf most of the crescent.

"This. This is Godric's Hollow?"

"Indeed it is, yes. As you can see, it could do with some weeding. But it still retains its splendor. Only very few people can ever live in Godric's Hollow let alone invoking its ancient magic. Your parents were one of them."

"And the others?" Harry dared to ask.

Dumbledore surveyed Harry for a moment (at which time Harry deliberately crouched to tie his shoelace) then said, not unkindly, "Perhaps you shall find out soon enough."

Harry couldn't think of anything to say to this (even after so many years, he couldn't dodge Dumbledore's knack for posing odd statements) so he contented himself with looking toward the houses. The one closest to him had a small, fenced gate. It opened up to a path flanked by canopied trees, but in the dense darkness, that was all he could make out

Dumbledore went through the gate of the fence and Harry followed suit. He squinted as though the sheer darkness was getting in his eyes. He couldn't see anything yet and Dumbledore seemed in no hurry to explain. Unwillingly, the childhood memory of the green flash of light blinded Harry's eyes, his ears filled with the sound of the high, cold laughter he only used to _speculate_ was there. It was funny how he had never really thought much about that memory until now. He supposed he was too busy trying to fight off Voldemort and avoid detention with Snape to actually worry too much about it.

Ahead of him, Dumbledore stopped, quite suddenly, and Harry was only just thinking how lucky it was that he maintained a fair pace behind the Headmaster or else he would've surely knocked him over, when his eyes fell upon the very thing Dumbledore had silently stopped before.

There was a house, derelict and crumbling. The roof's wooden beams had collapsed in disarray and the glinting of the grass told Harry that window shards littered the unkempt lawn, which, consequentially, was reduced to healthy heap of ragweed and crab grass. The doorway and the left half of the brick-and-concrete exterior were the only things that were erect. The shingles were reduced to mere dust and the entire house was basically a moulding, forgotten ruin. There were cracks running alongside the half that was actually erect though everything looked so close to collapse that he was amazed at the single shred of a curtain that was flying forlornly in the light wind.

Dumbledore said nothing.

Harry interpreted his silence correctly however, and moved forwards not quite in a trance but not quite within the realm of reality. His heart was breaking. Quite literally. He knew he should be feeling…devastated. This was the state that his first home had been reduced to. He supposed he must be happy here and it had been broken in one singular stroke of tempestuous fate.

Yet, as he drew closer, Harry blindly stepped over the broken door that lay on the pathway and stamped a walkway through the dense grass. Moths flew about him in a state of blind frenzy, just like his own mind. He knew that he should be angry, unhappy, any subset of sadness really. But as he crouched down to pick up a piece of unknown cloth, Harry couldn't help but feel elated. He felt lifted and his soul a mixture of wonderment and peace.

How would he ever be able to describe how he really felt? Like the autumn breeze that is allowed to blow after an ever-lasting summer yet unstable like the brief flap of a butterfly's wings whose one movement changes the world, says the Chaos Theory. All around him was all that Harry had ever known. He wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. He wanted to kill and love at the same time. But mostly, as he clenched the cloth tight in his hand now, he wanted to make everything whole again. He wanted to share this with someone.

Bound in time, perhaps by the earlier-thought-of plastic wrap, Harry got up and started roving in the grass. There were many treasures to be found: there were broken wooden handles of a mobile. It had shooting stars and Snitches attached to it. Harry blinked back tears as he smiled fondly. His hands found mulch that had surely once been parchment and burned picture frames. Their inhabitants were no longer present; they were burned to ashes and the glass was smashed to pulp. But the frame still retained the beautiful flowered etching.

Much of what he was looking at was like the frame, Harry thought. _Everything was gone yet nothing was lost_.

And, in this ruin, maybe he could salvage something of what he could find.

Dumbledore watched the young man, watched as the latter sunk into the grass and indulged himself with the strewn mulch, now only memories of what once were. He watched Harry finally get up and make his way to the house, his footsteps unsure as though he might break something precious in the process. As though there were something left. And Dumbledore smiled at the remarkable boy in front of him, ever lasting and most persistent in his search for love. For even though Harry didn't know it, in his blood ran the strength, the dynamics, and mostly, the love, of his eternal parents.

"Remarkable, Harry," said Dumbledore to himself.

Harry stepped up to what was remaining of the left wall and gazed questioningly at the brick at the very bottom of the structure. It was slightly chipped but otherwise unmarred and looked to be standing of it's own. Scared though he was, Harry put his hand upon the brick.

Nothing happened.

He smiled to himself. What had he expected? A shock of some kind? A whisper of a woman's voice in his ear? A peal of laughter?

Nothing. Harry just shivered at the cold brick and took a great steadying breath. He stepped inside.

Standing upon the threshold of the doorway, Harry felt as though all his life spiraled into that one moment. He _could_ feel the jolt of the shock, the warm lilt of the woman's voice as it soared on the breeze, the peal of laughter that rippled on the lone, ripped curtain.

He wanted to go on. Yet something told him to wait. Wait to step inside until another time. Sometime soon, for sure, but he felt like he was missing something. As though someone or something should be here with him as well. Normally, Harry was a private person, savoring all that he felt by himself. But this, surely, was meant for someone else as well.

And he knew who.

Dumbledore was a little surprised to see Harry's face so soon. He had expected the black-haired boy to take his time. Indeed, so willing was he to give Harry his time that he was perched upon the fence in what he expected to be a long while.

Without a word, Dumbledore produced a sheaf of papers from his long robes, which were an extravagant mustard yellow tonight, and handed it to Harry. Harry hid a smile at Dumbledore's demeanour and asked instead, "So these are the property papers?"

"Indeed, Harry. As you will see, once you have finished sorting through exactly 32 pieces of parchment that there is white paper. Only 28 pieces. These are the Muggle forms you will need to complete."

Harry looked a little bewildered. "But Godric's Hollow –"

"Yes, Godric's Hollow _is_ a Wizarding area however, in accordance with that, you must have also noticed that, upon arriving here, you passed through a Muggle town. It is somewhat like the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. Wizarding, but not quite. Also, if you remember Ms. Granger's words to you, Hogsmeade is the only entirely non-Muggle settlement in Britain."

Harry looked up and thought he saw a twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes. This time he grinned. "So, for Muggle purposes, I'm living around here somewhere?"

"Exactly."

"Professor?"

"Harry?"

"I'll need some time to look at these…and…I'd like to come back another time before…" Harry trailed off as Dumbledore reached into his robes once more and pulled out a thin, rectangular piece of beveled steel.

"This, Harry, is a an Area Key. It works much in the same way as a Portkey but without having to set up a specific time for transportation. You generally have to order these months in advance and they require that the Ministry does a thorough history check on the person in question," he spread his hands out, "But since it was me doing the requesting, it was fulfilled at once."

"You see, the spells around this particular place are still going strong. Though Godric's Hollow is just now deserted, it was a place only ever meant for a select few people. Your parents, being one of them, and now you. It is ancient magic that protects the area and, though it can be sidestepped for a few hours, the bonds between such age-old magic are never really broken. So you can never Apparate in Godric's Hollow. The Area Key shall help you with that."

Dumbledore handed Harry the cold key and he studied it for a moment. There was a dent in the upper left corner that had the rough outline of a feather. "Hey, there's something on here."

"Yes. It is a special encryption. No two Area Keys are ever alike. It is there for security measures as well as recognition." Dumbledore paused for a moment and then continued, airily, "The Triwizard Cup had one as well. The crown of it, in the shape of – "

"A serpent," Harry finished quietly.

"Quite," said Dumbledore, cheerfully. "Ahh, Harry, you see, the danger of being Lord Voldemort is that it must become so terribly predictable."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "But Crouch had said –"

"That it was a Portkey? I must admit that I had the same notion as well. He was mistaken. Voldemort doesn't tell all, everything. Even those who think they are closest to him are sorely mistaken. There is no one he holds close. He is self sufficient."

Harry tucked the Area key in his pocket and transfigured a nearby stone into a large manilla envelope. In this, he put the sheaf of property parchments (and paper) and tucked it beneath his arm.

"We still have a little time. Let me treat you to a birthday drink. I trust it shall be your first." It wasn't really a question, nor a statement and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement.

"Of course," replied Harry, his lips twitching. "My very first."

"Drink it! Drink it! Drink it! Drink it!" chanted the large circle of surrounding people.

Amidst the crowd of spinning Gryffindors, a hand with a Marguerita shot out and forced the tangy liquid down Harry's throat. His eyes prickled at the first taste: Ron had obviously gone strong on the level of alcohol. The salt decking the edge of the glass piqued the taste and caused Harry to try and suck his palate and lick his lips at the same time.

Everyone cheered and Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. He looked around and grinned through slightly watered eyes. They had opened the champagne merely half an hour ago and, by the looks of Fred and George's faces, it was all gone now. The crowd of blurry people soon came into focus again as his eyes dried and Harry saw the beaming faces of Ron and Seamus, Hermione's torn expression of joy and disapproval, and Parvati's jangling earrings.

Harry silently thanked his two best friends for pulling this off such a grand birthday party. And, moreover, rising to the task of getting him out of Harry-brooding-mode. The loss of those around him hit Harry so hard, it had blindsided him, sidetracked him even. He supposed he was still quite numb but thanked Ron and Hermione for erasing, even if for a bit, that memory.

Even that stupid Potions essay that was remaining couldn't damper his spirits.

This time wouldn't come back, they had told him.

He was sixteen now.

He about to step into his sixth year.

His death was not your fault, Harry. There was no way you could have known, Harry.

Blah Blah Blah.

We love you Harry.

"Yes! The straight-edger remains straight edge no longer!" yelled Seamus.

"Yoos! But we still need to work on his virginity." Harry spluttered his indignation.

"You should start a club, Harry. The Straight edge club," said Ron, a smug expression on his face.

Harry shoved Ron playfully, "It's not intentional, you know."

Seamus snickered. "Yeah, that's what they have on the napkins on the club."

Harry rolled his eyes and accepted a glass of Firewhisky from Hermione who was coming towards them, a range of drinks in her hand. She was holding herself differently, as though she were giddy. Harry guessed that Ron had got to her as well. "What are we talking about?" she said as she set down the tray of differently colored liquids.

"How Harry should start a club," Seamus piped up. "A straight edge club."

Harry looked at Seamus thoughtfully. "You know, that's not a bad idea. Maybe I'll have a wetbar in the back."

Seamus stared at him. "…..Can I join?"

Ron snorted. "Mate? Count me in too."

Hermione just laughed at the utter nonsense coming out of everyone's mouth. Now Hermione Granger was a smart girl and knew that two cognacs and two beers did not allow for anything sensible coming out from _her_ mouth so she grabbed another beer. Ron flung an arm around her and said, "I knew you had it in you, Prefect Granger. Look at her down the stuff! English blood, you know."

"Bah, that's nothing. You're talking to an Irishman here!" Seamus proclaimed with slightly blurred hand movements. He was quite drunk. Harry grinned at him and excused himself to the bathroom. When he returned, Ginny had taken his place: he didn't know if this was the effect of his third Firewhisky but she was looking incredibly….incredible.

"What's going on?" Harry asked as the table burst into laughter and then immediately quieted again.

"Nothing," Ginny supplied. There was a silence around the table (which now consisted of Ron, Hermione sitting on top of his lap, Seamus and Dean on one chair with Seamus taking the larger half and Parvati sitting beside Ginny). Then, "Do you want to dance, Harry?"

Harry said nothing as the waiter plopped a Butterbeer on the table. There was the distinct possibility that he was a lightweight and thus quite drunk. Uh oh.

So he opened his mouth and said, "Sure."

"Why do you wanna dance with Harry so bad, Ginny?" asked Seamus, his speech now thoroughly slurred.

"Duh," said Parvati in a sing-song voice, "She _likes_ him, you idiot."

_Oh great_, thought some rational part of Harry, _we've descended to third-grade shenanigans._

"Grow up, Parvati. I refuse to be a part of this stupidity," Ginny said, not making much sense herself. "Have you never heard of giving someone an incentive to do something?

"You mean, like a bribe?" piped up Teacher Hermione

"Well, if you want to put in such…. _unholy_ terms," Ginny scoffed. "Actually Harry, I heard that you're going to have a wetbar in your Sad Man's Club…"

Ron choked on his drink and Hermione's tinkling laugh was all Harry could remember the next morning.

Harry shrugged off his jacket and wriggled into a shabby grey t-shirt. Dumbledore had been kind enough to Side-Apparate him to his room. He suspected the older man knew that if Harry tried to get in through the door at this time of night, there wouldn't be much left of him in the morning.

Drinks with Dumbledore had brought him back to this time last year. When Ron and Hermione had organized a big birthday bash. And he'd gotten spectacularly drunk. Ginny had sworn he'd given her a lap dance. Hermione, once sobered, had blandly refuted.

He smiled at the memory. Of course, these rounds of drinks were much more tame. He had quietly ordered a small sherry while Dumbledore downed a generous pint of mead. He yawned widely and glanced at the clock. It read 4:00 a.m. Shaking his head, Harry decided he better try to cram in at least four hours more of good sleep while he could. Sleeping in was not something the Dursleys generally tolerated. Not of him, anyway.

So of course, just as he had decided on this, a soft whoosh through his open bedroom window announced the arrival of Hedwig. If this were all that had decided to fly in through his window at 4 a.m. in the morning, Harry wouldn't have paid much attention. But following Hedwig, Harry saw the outline of another creature soar in.

The thing flew to the darkest corner as Harry cursed and instinctively flew for his wand. It wasn't, however, as far away as he had thought and he ended up hitting his foot by the bedside table. His glasses that lay upon the untouched Transfiguration book came crashing to the floor.

"Christ." Then, "_Reparo._"

Hedwig hooted, possibly in amusement. The creature in the corner stirred and Harry realized it was sitting on the table he used to do his homework. As it turned, Harry caught sight of bright yellow eyes and had the good sense to whisper, "_Lumos_."

It was an owl.

It wasn't just any owl. It was a post owl.

Ahh. Yes, that would explain why Hedwig hadn't protested its entrance. Now fully aware of what was in his room, Harry proceeded to flick on the light switch. He heard a muffled groan from the next room and prayed that Dudley was still dreaming of banana split boats and chocolate éclairs.

Harry made his way to the owl perched importantly upon his desk. As he got closer, he saw that every talon was perfectly clipped and the coat of feathers were a glossy array of browns and gold. Taking care of Hedwig as long as he had, Harry knew that this was an eagle owl. And it obviously belong to someone who was either extremely fussy, bored, or rich.

Perhaps a combination of all three.

Attached to the bird's foot was a neat envelope with fancy, neat writing. _Harry Potter_, it simply said.

Harry sat down in confusion. There was someone who was extremely pompous and rich, sending him a letter at four a.m. On his birthday.

….Had Ron hit the jackpot?

But all the gold galleons in the world couldn't buy you good handwriting, Harry decided, as he surveyed the writing that looked absolutely nothing like Ron's boyish scribble. Even the handwriting seemed to exude opulence.

The eagle owl let out a quiet hoot, as if urging him to open it. Harry darted one look at Hedwig (he was sure that if she were human, she would be smirking right now) and turned over the letter.

It was sealed.

A black-inked crest with trimmed curls around the edge and a forked tongue was shrouded by what was unmistakably a large, heightened "M" on it.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no._

Fingers shaking in trepidation, Harry opened the letter.

There was a quarter piece of parchment and on it was scrawled,

_His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad  
his hair as dark as a blackboard,  
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,  
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord._

Oh. Bloody Hell.

_OK. You're going to be OK. Stop hyperventilating. Get a grip and stop acting like a prat, Potter._

Hands buried in his head, Harry silently cried out in frustration. Stop mind, stop, he willed. There was no need to jump to conclusions. This could be a wide range of things:

Option a) From Draco Malfoy.

Option b) A joke from one of his friends.

Option c) …From…Draco, er, Malfoy.

Oh for crying out loud!

Harry didn't know what to make of the letter. It could have been a practical joke and, as he had never actually seen the Malfoy emblem for himself, how could he be sure that it wasn't just Fred and George pissing around?

He examined the seal for a good fifteen minutes, running his hands over the depressions and raised edges, trying to persuade some memory of the Malfoy seal to come back.

But never before had Malfoy ever sent him anything.

Could it, then, be that this was, indeed, a joke? And besides, said the part of him that believed in wishful thinking far too much, the emblem was such a cliché. The seal practically screamed out 'Evil-rich-family-alias-death-eaters-purebloods-unite'. Shouldn't Malfoy's sign be more…subtle?

But then again, it wasn't as if anything Malfoy did or said was with subtlety. Oh, the blond git had plenty of tact; he'd give him that.

He might maintain a haughty expression, most of the time, but whenever he acted, it was with grandeur and suave so that everyone in the vicinity knew. Harry sat down on the bed as the realization hit him: Malfoy never did anything out of place, never wasted a single action. Every action, every look, was well placed and purposeful, or else he wouldn't say anything at all. He practically bled aristocracy with every sweeping motion of his hand that was deliberate, or else not performed at all.

Oh god, you know Malfoy's hand movements? That's it, Harry boy, you might as well pack it in altogether.

The carrier owl had distracted him at that point by a little tiff that Hedwig and it were having over the water dish.

God, even the owl was a brat.

And as he looked at the crisp handwriting and glanced at the eagle owl's tantrum, he was sure. Certain, even. Who else could it belong to?

The question was, why? Why had Malfoy written to him? No, that was not exactly what he had done because writing to people constituted someone writing something that was theirs to share, a brief update, a short note. This was – what was it..?

This was a challenge, Harry decided that night. Even in the darkness of his room, Harry could see Malfoy's face jeering out of his words. The very fact that the Slytherin had decided to use Ginny's poem (her disaster, more like) was proof enough that he was mocking Harry.

Well, fine then, if he wanted to play this stupid game in the middle of the morning, Harry would be a good opponent and comply. If this was some stupid show of literary witticism and that's all, he would write back and tell Malfoy exactly what he thought of him and where he could put the piece of parchment once he was done reading it.

Harry scribbled a response, then crossed out his name and wrote Malfoy's. He secured it to the post owl and shivered a little, thinking about the Mirror. He had taken it as a sort of warning: stay away from Malfoy, or something terrible would happen. But what if Malfoy replied?

No, thought Harry. He wouldn't reply. He was just trying to get back at Harry for that stupid snake incident.

Even in his head, the words held an empty promise. This was something else. Question was, what?

Harry sighed tiredly. He was exhausted and felt weary and tomorrow spelt another day.

In any case, he knew exactly what was going to happen to Malfoy's next letter. If he answered that is.

Straight in the garbage, that's where it was headed.

Finished with securing the letter on (Malfoy's?) owl's leg, he finally crashed into bed.

Mr. Sandman, however, had other ideas.

Harry turned to his side and refused to look out the window. He angrily shoved his blanket to one side and stared at the desk by his bedside.

The Mirror of Erised showed a person their deepest wishes, their most profound desires. Malfoy was so deep, then, that he must have fallen out the other side, for Harry roved and roved and found no place that held any desire for Malfoy.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. This couldn't be right. He _hated_ Malfoy. Absolutely _loathed_ him. Malfoy was hostile, biased, errant, and the one of the few people he consciously hated. Harry never made it his job to force Malfoy into a position of discomfit but was always the first to laugh at him.

In fourth year, while facing the dragon, all he could think about was what Malfoy would say if he failed. All he could see (when he was supposed to be summoning his broom) was great big badges of "Potter Stinks" and the amount of variations that Malfoy could manufacture if he failed.

But to be the object of his desires, Malfoy would have had to change somehow. Because he sure as hell was never appealing before, according to the dratted Mirror. How had he changed? Had he even changed?

OK. _Example_, thought Harry.

Sixth year (last year), breakfast before the Gryffindor/Ravenclaw match. Malfoy casually saunters past and picks a fight with Ron. His hand (Harry later realizes) deftly pops a packet of _Dogone – Diarrhea_ (courtesy of Zonko's) into Harry's pumpkin juice. Gryffindor had to forfeit the match and Ravenclaw won by default. All those days of hard work and practice in the pouring rain all down the toilet.

Quite literally.

No, he hadn't changed.

But then Harry remembered that, the day before, he had slipped a Nose Biting Teacup into Malfoy's lap. Maybe Malfoy would only have one child in the future.

But instead of loudly complaining to Snape later, Malfoy shut up about it and stumbled from the infirmary to the Slytherin Table that evening in complete silence. He shot Harry one contemptuous look and settled to having Pansy Parkinson fuss over him.

_He hadn't said a word._

OK. So maybe he _had _changed. For starters, he wasn't a loud, obnoxious drama queen anymore. And Harry, after all, was the one who had started it.

Uh oh.

This wasn't looking good. _Change of scenario_, Harry thought. _There are loads of things he's done!_

Er….

Crude insults thrown at Ron and Hermione were always in surplus. This particular trait of Malfoy's got under Harry's skin; the ability to know exactly what to say to piss with Ron or Hermione, which in turn, wound him up. The way that Malfoy never gave up on the chance to trip Harry up.

Like in fifth year. Boys' Prefect bathroom. Malfoy hires Colin Creevey to take pictures of Harry backing away from Moaning Myrtle while in the bathtub. He then enchants said pictures with the wording "The Boy Who Scores something other than a Quidditch Goal" in the corner. He then proceeds to _sell _them, actually making profit out of the pictures as they circulate through the castle like house elves spotting a mess.

Harry felt triumphant. _See?_ _He's such a git._

Ahh, whispered his traitorous conscience. What about the time that Malfoy proved everyone wrong? What about the Gryffindor/Slytherin match last year? Harry closed his eyes and he could picture the scene perfectly.

It was the last match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Somehow, it always managed to be like this.

There was no uncertainty, however, when Harry Potter played. Harry had been sickened as he looked around and realized that no one really paid attention. No one underestimated him, there was never a moment of '_what- if?' _when he played

No doubt.

He thought he knew what they must have all been thinking: Harry Potter would win the match. There was no surprise in that. It wouldn't matter if the team played brilliantly or terribly for Harry Potter would save the day.

He always saved the day.

That is what heroes do.

And Harry had turned away from the offending Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The Slytherins were cheering like mad but that flat look in Blaise Zabini's eyes as he huffily watched the match told Harry all he needed to know. Even the Slytherins knew they would lose.

Only because of him. Harry Potter.

Halfway through the match, however, Ginny's broom started to vibrate. Harry was so busy looking for the Snitch, he hadn't realized what was going on. Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Malfoy swoop deftly over the goalposts and knew that his eyes must be searching for the Snitch as well.

There was a shriek on the other side of the pitch and Harry saw Ginny trying desperately to hold on. All thoughts of the Snitch now gone from his mind, he raced toward her.

But he never made it.

The very same second, beater Lucas Chase hit a well-aimed Bludger at Dean. Of course, it hit Harry first.

As Harry was hit in the side of his head, his vision blinded, but not before he saw Malfoy racing in Ginny's direction. Vaguely, a moment before he fell, he realized that Malfoy must have spotted the Snitch. The sheer irony of his bitter thoughts before on Gryffindor winning circled around his head.

This match was Slytherin's.

But someone would have to save Ginny.

When he woke up, Hermione had been hovering anxiously by his bedside. She had told Harry everything. The way that Malfoy had raced towards Ginny just as she could hold on no longer. He had apparently caught her, placed her on the ground, then, without a word, soared to the Slytherin stands and knocked out Blaise Zabini in a single punch.

"I _said_ NO. BLOODY. CHEATING. You deaf ARSE!"

Blaise Zabini had placed a nifty hex on Ginny's broom and though it wasn't too powerful, it had shaken her all the same. Harry was inwardly ashamed that he had recognized the telltale look in Zabini's eyes but hadn't thought further.

The match was a draw.

Malfoy had never acknowledged what he had done for Ginny. And Harry was just as pleased because he thought he'd rather eat one of Hagrid's stoat sandwiches than thank Malfoy.

Harry shut his eyes tighter. So Malfoy wasn't that bad. He was like a Flobberworm without the slime.

Ahh. Is that the smell of an epiphany?

Malfoy had never exhibited extreme affection for Harry and his friends but, reasoned rational Harry, could you blame him? It wasn't as though the Gryffindors and Slytherins were chummy-chummy. Sure, Malfoy worked hard to keep Harry as miserable as possible but didn't Harry take pleasure in doing the same?

And despite everything, all the name-calling, the fistfights, the sneers and rude hand gestures, he could never see Malfoy handing a mere child a book that would take over her very mind. Oh, he could see him kicking a house elf around, but couldn't imagine him taking pleasure in screaming torture.

And Malfoy had saved Ginny.

Oh, he had joked about St. Mungo's in front of Neville. But he looked nothing more than bewildered as Neville had tried to launch himself upon Malfoy. No retaliation. And did Harry honestly think that a boy who would be the first to run away from Blast-Ended Skrewts could be a Death Eater?

Harry sighed in irritation and snapped his eyes open. Bah, OK, so he wasn't a cruel murderer. So? That didn't mean he wasn't a right pain in the arse.

His concession to this didn't mean that Harry didn't think that Malfoy was the most frustrating person he'd ever had the misfortune to come across. He didn't see how he could suddenly _desire_ the cretinous prat.

Harry sat up in bed and straightened the blanket, which was curled up in a ball. One look at Malfoy could send Harry's brain into overtime.

A rush for the first insult.

A rush for the first spell.

A rush to get in the first punch.

Fighting Voldemort he could deal with. What he couldn't was allowing Malfoy to be one up on him. Couldn't bear Malfoy finding out he had fainted on the train due to Dementors. Couldn't let Malfoy beat him in Quidditch. If we get detention for being out of bed, Professor McGonagall, then Malfoy should too!

Sixth year, Dumbledore's office.

Harry was in here, yet again. Dumbledore was out of town, on Order business no doubt, but McGonagall had summoned him every few days to make sure that there was nothing bothering Harry.

No bad dreams, Harry? No. No sudden visions, Harry? No. Classes not making you feel ill, Harry? Are you sure you can go to the fucking _bathroom_ alone, Harry?

He was so sick and tired of seeing everyone either flinch or worry as they looked at him that first term. Undoubtedly, the appalling events over the summer had had everyone on edge and unsure of where they stood. But, of course, Harry Potter was singled out.

Somewhere down the line of the first three months, his feeling of immense sadness and loss had changed rapidly from numb reality to bitterness and anger. And welled up inside of him, as even he didn't realize it, all it had taken was a smooth comment from Malfoy when Professor McGonagall left the office briefly, to spark Harry's reaction.

From mere insults, all wands forgotten, the start of a scuffle turned to a full-blown fight. Harry kicked and punched blindly, not knowing, not caring, where his fist connected. Malfoy, of course, fought just as dirtily, perhaps even more so, as he seized one of Dumbledore's ornaments and knocked Harry over the head with it.

And that was how the Headmaster had found the two boys: bloody nosed, broken lipped, dirty, hair and tie and robe in disarray. 

As Dumbledore drew himself to his full height and spoke gravely, Harry remembered feeling angry, upset, in a wild rage with his heart thumping painfully fast and his chest hurting hard.

But it was different.

He could _feel_.

Harry got out of the bed and groped in the darkness. The waning moon had hidden behind passing clouds and it was dark all of a sudden. First it had been Cedric's death. Harry hadn't known how to handle it. The guilt. The grief.

He was alive. But he had forgotten how to live.

The summer after fifth year. The death of Charlie Weasley. Percy screaming that it should have been him. The flames. Ron's pain. Hermione's screams. Mrs. Weasley's anguish.

Everything.

It had all come bearing down upon Harry like a vicious Dementor, sucking out every happy thought that had ever filled his heart. And it had only disheartened him more to realize that he didn't have many memories to spare.

But during all the retrospective trips he took back, Malfoy had made him feel. An insane well of frustration, anger, sheer irritation, hatred, loathing. Everything so startlingly clear and intense in emotion that he was surprised that he hadn't burst during those moments of….well, those moments of being alive.

And Malfoy had made it so.

His desire. What did he want most? Harry prodded himself.

He wanted….he wanted to kill Voldemort. Wanted him to suffer as he had made everyone around him suffer. He wanted to fight back. Most of the time, the sheer incapability of not being able to do anything to help, drove Harry out of his mind but it had an adverse effect on him: instead of causing him to fight back even more, it repressed him. Memories loomed over him. He became numb.

But times that he felt the pure unfairness of it all, times that a sleeping monster within roared for action had been all the times he had seethed with rage at Malfoy.

Being able to see that maniacal glint in Malfoy's eyes, to know that he caused a reaction within Malfoy so great that the sophisticated brat could be reduced to something as primal as fighting, gave Harry a rush of sorts.

A high.

To realize that he really did wield power, if only acting as a catalyst to Malfoy's anger.

At least he could prod something other than pity, he could manifest something other than worry in Malfoy's eyes.

And that was power. That was when he felt alive. That was when he felt…capable. Free. Unrestrained.

Harry shivered though it was quite a hot night. The sun would be up in a few hours. As he leaned on his window ledge, a slight breeze graced him. Hedwig hooted and Harry was now bathed in moonlight.

He looked up. Realizing it now didn't make things any better though. It seemed that he now invested his life in moments where he sustained physical damage (thanks to Malfoy) and a wide variety of insults (also thanks to Malfoy). Somehow, this obsession to create a reaction in Malfoy, to receive one, to engage in something that allowed Harry to _feel something_, had taken over.

This had become his deepest desire: the creator of this feeling. It had surpassed his love, his want, for his own parents.

Life, it seemed, had come to a degrading standstill and the stopper in the bottle was Malfoy.

Malfoy was what Harry wanted. Malfoy was…important to him. He desired, needed, Malfoy.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Harry blinked tiredly. To desire something that he formerly hated…somehow, Harry couldn't stomach this. What kind of person was he becoming?

But everything made too much sense now. It was as though he had ventured into dangerous territory after being warned against it. But there was no turning back and every thought, every step, brought Harry closer.

To its acceptance.

And possibly its solution.

He had to figure Malfoy into all of this.

They had to talk.

If Malfoy was what he wanted…then he wasn't going to let go so easily.

"So why are we going down to Diagon Alley, again?"

"I _told_ you already, Dray, the French Wizarding book suppliers are on strike. So Flourish and Blotts is basically supplying the books for _two_ schools. Beauxbatons _and_ Hogwarts. Do _you_ want to use second-hand books?"

Draco wrinkled his nose at the prospect. "How is that you know the most mundane, pointless of things, Pansy? And don't call me Dray."

Pansy pulled on Draco's arm as they fought the crowd at the entrance of the bookshop. "It's a gift, I suppose."

Draco snorted. He didn't doubt it was. But Pansy, of course, was right. The store was extremely packed, mostly with mothers grabbing like Veelas at shiny new books for their precious children. Clearly, no one but the Weasleys actually _wanted_ second-hand things. Draco smirked.

"Where's Blaise?"

"Sick," said Pansy distractedly as she consulted her book list and thrust two books into Draco's unwilling arms.

"This is slave labour," he whined. "Why didn't you bring one of your house elves along?"

"Draco! Just shut up. I'm fighting crazy old women here!" Pansy sighed in exasperation at the bratty expression on the blond's face. "Ugh, forget it. Look, just go to the back and get us a place in line. I'll be there soon. And give those to me," she added, seeing Draco's arms droop further and further.

Shooting him a nasty look (which Draco returned with one of his most dashing smiles), she left and Draco pushed his way to the back of the store and secured himself in line. He loved the sound of his own whining voice, he reflected with a small grin. It invariably reminded him he was a spoilt brat and loved it.

It was quite noisy and, frankly, being the start of August, quite hot. Draco pulled off his robes and relaxed in the cotton shirt he wore underneath. Honestly, aristocracy must have originated in Siberia or something. Why else would good robes be so heavy?

The crowd behind him pushed Draco and he lost his balance. He turned sharply around in protest and was only pushed further, so much so that he almost pummeled some girl ahead of him.

Who had a lifetime of bullying experience, Draco asked himself. Well, actually that would be Crabbe and Goyle. But he always initiated it, didn't he? So Draco pushed back amidst squawks of protest and resumed his spot in line. Unfortunately, he could now hear every word of the conversation the girl ahead of him was having.

He didn't particularly like eavesdropping.

It reminded him of himself.

" − don't understand why you didn't go in?"

Draco then froze as he heard the voice of the responder. He would know that voice anywhere.

"Oh forget it, 'Mione. I'll go in next time."

"Oh, Harry. I'm so happy. You better give us a good house warming party."

A low laugh. "Opportunist."

"I learnt from Ginny and the Sad Man's Club."

A louder laugh.

_Sad Man's Club? House warming party? _Draco supposed it was some stupid inside joke. Of all the places for Potter to be, it had to be here. On this very day. Draco could almost swear that the dark haired boy was stalking him if it weren't for the memory of how clearly Harry had wanted to _get away_ from him on the train.

He wondered if Potter had gotten his little missive. Allete hadn't returned from the trip yet, so either she had only just arrived and Potter wasn't in, or she was returning, currently in mid-flight. Draco turned away from the duo, hoping that his hair and height wouldn't give him away. He was a good four or five inches taller than Granger but Potter was almost his height. The dark haired boy was wearing a worn out bomber jacket and jeans. Jeans, Draco noted idly, that actually fit him for once.

Fit him quite well.

He didn't know what exactly has possessed him to write those exact words. He just wished he were there to see Potter's reaction. What would it be? Would the idiot even be able to figure out it was him? He supposed the seal was a dead giveaway but he wouldn't ever put stupidity past Potter.

What kind of answer could he expect from this? All possible answers to his letter seemed to be past him as well so if Potter could manage more than a "fuck off, Malfoy" he would be impressed. He was careful not to let his hopes soar too high, though.

Just then, Pansy decided to make her entry and be very loud about it. Draco cringed as he simultaneously heard her yell out his name and, from the corner of his eye, saw Hermione Granger spin around.

Harry whipped his head around so fast he was amazed he hadn't gotten a crick. Oh fuck. Of all. The bleeding. Places.

_Malfoy_.

Pansy huffed and dumped some of the books in Draco's hands. "OK," she announced, "that's everything on the list. I got yours too. There had better be ice cream in this for me."

Draco bit back a smile as he hoisted the books higher. When she was finished checking the book list, Pansy looked up and caught sight of Hermione. "What are you looking at Granger? Haven't you ever seen two people that aren't the Weasleys talking? They seem to be everywhere. Oh wait, that's because they _are,_" she sneered.

_Oh, spot on_. He had taught her so well, Draco thought. Two birds with one stone. He looked up (down, rather) at Granger and smirked in silence.

Harry narrowed his eyes. _Jerkoff_, he thought automatically, though Malfoy had said nothing. Just his mere presence spelt trouble. He gave Pansy a withering glare and turned Hermione away from them. He was damned if, after last night, he had to put up with anymore of Malfoy's shenanigans. And Hermione had done nothing to deserve this either.

"Oh, what's wrong, Potter? Can't think of a good comeback?" jeered Draco.

"Oh I can," he answered dryly, not turning around, "I have a standard rule though. I don't answer back to people with ugly faces and low IQ's. Oh Malfoy, that must mean you."

"Really?" countered Draco. "Well thank you, Potter, for correcting me. And here I was thinking that was your stupid boyfriend, Weasley."

Harry punched Draco so fast, the taller boy didn't have time to react. Within a split second, Draco felt the side of his mouth give way and warm blood in response. There was a loud gasp from the rest of the crowd as they parted to let the Boy Who Lived and some blond kid, fight. All the books that Draco was holding toppled on his bloody lip and Pansy swore, trying to get them off him.

Harry stared down in seething rage at the ridiculous form of Malfoy underneath all those books. When Pansy had pushed the books off his face, Harry could see that he had succeeded in giving the boy a bloody lip and a cut under his nose. Fists clenched, and ignoring Hermione's screams of, "No, Harry!" he leant down on one knee and pulled Draco up by the collar.

"Get off him, jerk!" yelled Pansy.

Harry's face inched as close as he could get to Malfoy. There was something oddly satisfying getting him to shut up and completely vulnerable like this.

But it was also horrifyingly out of place.

That moment of satisfaction passed and Harry wished that Malfoy would punch him back so he could get all his feelings from last night out too. If Malfoy punched him back it would prove that Malfoy was the one in the wrong and Harry could go on hurting him without any of the guilt factor.

Was that what he was looking for, a justification?

Malfoy said nothing, but sneered through his bloody lip, that was now dripping onto his bruised cheek, courtesy of several falling books. His hands were cold and clenched around Harry's fist that was clutching his shirt. Harry willed all his anger to pass through to Malfoy, hoping that the latter could _feel_ how very serious he was. How he didn't want to be _ever_ be fucked with again.

Draco looked at Harry with a blank expression on his face, but eyes narrowed in dislike. He loved getting a rise out of Potter like this. It was some sort of sick pleasure and he usually, he would fight back but the mere rage emanating out of Potter kept him at bay. He was good at his spellwork, but not foolish.

"Draco Malfoy." Potter's voice was low and cutting. "I've had just about enough of your _shit_. I don't particularly _like_ getting dirty by punching you all the time, but if you _ever_ insult Hermione, Ron or _any_ of them in front of my face again, I. Will. Pull out your fucking _intestines_ and _feed _them to dragons, got it?"

There was a cruel smile beginning at Draco's wounded lip. Harry roughly let go of Draco's collar.

He was scared he knew that expression all too well.

Harry pulled Hermione, ignored the staring bystanders, slammed some money on the counter of the aghast bookstore owner and left as quickly as he could.

Well, that had gone badly. At least one thing was established. He couldn't go anywhere now, without Malfoy, or one of his signatures, popping up. Would he have to spend his life like this? In constant fear of being ambushed? Oh, it was all that sodding Mirror's fault! Dumbledore, what was he thinking whipping it out like that!

Yes, he had meant to talk to Malfoy. But he wasn't ready.

Not here. Not now.

Especially not with Pansy Parkinson and Hermione right there.

And he was starting to have second thoughts. Granted, last night his theory made sense. But this morning, in the light of Hermione's warmth and comfortable company, Malfoy didn't seem to factor in so much.

It suddenly didn't seem so important to figure out what was going on. If he could push out the feeling of unrest, maybe he didn't need to ever think about the stupid old Mirror again.

"Harry, wait up, will you?" Hermione rushed beside him and forced him to give her half the books.

"Please don't lecture me, Hermione. Not until we get something to eat at least."

It was silent.

"Let's do Italian," Hermione answered simply.

Harry stopped suddenly. He carefully put the package of books on the ground and, in the crowd of hot, grumbling people, he hugged Hermione. "I love you very much," he whispered fiercely.

Hermione leaned into the embrace. "I know, love. I do too."

"So pasta or pizza?"

Harry picked up the books and started walking again. He looked fondly at Hermione at his side. "Whatever you want. My treat." He might have understood if it was Hermione staring back at him from the Mirror. They were always lovely friends…suddenly turning into his desire would mean he felt something more?

But in a way, he was glad it wasn't. He wouldn't have Hermione any other way.

Still, it would be understandable. Not as crazy as Malfoy.

Malfoy.

"Pansy, gimme a break, its ice cream!"

"Exactly! It's cold, you dolt! It'll help the swelling go down and then I can heal it. So stop squirming so much." Pansy and Draco had hauled their purchases out of the bookstore and were now sitting outside of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.

"If you think I'm letting you come near me with a wand, you're daft," Draco said thickly. There was ice cream dripping down his cut lip. It stung the cut, which Pansy had cleaned of blood, but tasted good nonetheless. Bloody Potter had really got him hard. He could feel the beginnings of a headache.

"Fine, do it yourself, what do I care! You can't go home looking like this, we both know your father will flay you alive if he knows you've got into another fight."

"As if that keeps happening," scoffed Draco

"Uh, excuse me!" said Pansy as she withdrew the ice cream.

"Hey! I was enjoying that!"

"You're not supposed to be eating it!"

She began counting on her fingers. "Let's see, there was the time in the Potions storeroom, beginning of term. Professor Snape kicked _your_ arse _so_ hard, you were thanking your lucky stars you weren't Potter. Then, there was the snowball fight that turned the freaking _snow_ red − "

"Exaggerator. It was a few drops, from _Potter's_ nosebleed, nonetheless."

"−_and_," continued Pansy loudly, "there was that time that you were both left in Dumbledore's office. Two weeks detention from Dumbledore himself! Need I go on?"

Which left a very unhappy Draco. "Oh just shut up and let me eat your ice cream."

Pansy huffed and obliged. There was a silence. Which was all the better, Draco thought, since his headache was turning to brain freeze.

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

"Potter seemed really angry."

"Wow, what a wonderful observation, Pansy. Order of Merlin, First Class, if I can wrangle it."

"Oh shut up, plebe. What I _meant_ was…well, he's never that…well…usually you fight back."

"Oh!" exclaimed Draco, clutching at his heart. "I am hurt. Wounded. Did my frail ears correct? You called me a plebe! That was below the belt Pansy."

Pansy huffed again. "You're such a bloody drama queen."

"Mmmm…" Draco had gone back to licking the ice cream.

"Don't think I haven't noticed that you didn't answer my question."

Draco opened his mouth, no doubt equipped with a sharp remark, but Pansy was too quick for him. She clapped one hand over his mouth and swiftly took back her ice cream. "Just shut it," he growled in his ear.

And, for once, Draco obeyed, a small smile playing on his lips. As much as he could with a cut lip, anyway.

_You're a sick bastard. _

_Do you get some sort of sick pleasure at people's pain?  
I think you've been spending too much time being tortured in your dungeons._

_Must be all the fumes. _

_What the fuck is this supposed to mean!_

Allete had just returned with a reply. From Potter.

Just as his letter had been, the piece of parchment wasn't signed. Neither of his parents were home, so Draco had gotten away with answering any awkward questions about one cheek being bigger than the other. The swelling had gone down considerably and Pansy had been able to mend his split lip but his cheek was still smarting from all those books.

What would he say to his father? I was standing and suddenly books fell from the sky and one hit me on the face.

He could see himself being disowned for being stupid.

Allete hooted and Draco turned to her. "You up for another trip to Potter's hovel?" he asked as he stroked the glossy feathers. Draco had received Allete after his old owl had died. Eli was an extremely reliable eagle owl but had died suddenly in Draco's fourth year. Allete had been a gift from Draco's aunt, Adriatis, and had made some of Draco's more urgent posts.

Draco cared for her immensely.

Allete cleared her beak with a drink of water and hooted again. With a small pat, Draco tied the new letter to her foot and watched her leave once more. For a while, Draco stared at the setting sun and all of today's events. He found himself awaiting Potter's reply with some impatience. He blinked and realized that it was Potter's odd behaviour on the train that had led him to all this.

He had better not get in over his head.

As it happened, Harry was packing his trunk when Allete arrived with Draco's reply a day later. She hopped through his bedroom window and Hedwig clicked her beak as if in announcement. Once Harry had relieved the eagle owl of her letter, she promptly flew over to Hedwig.

From downstairs, the commotion of the television and Uncle Vernon's exclamations about his work, floated up stairs. Harry took one look at the familiar owl.

The Gods were punishing him, weren't they? This was because he had laughed at Eloise Midgeon's acne with Ron, wasn't it?

He ran his hands over the fresh envelope with the new scrawl. He turned it over and remembered his promise.

Harry glanced at the garbage can, now full of the junk he had cleared out of his trunk.

But the waste paper basket looked so…well, so daunting and it was _so_ far away from where he was sitting. It would take _so_ much effort to get there. Since the basket was overflowing with rubbish, he would have to make sure that the letter was thrown so it wouldn't knock over the dust bunnies (from under his bed) and so that it didn't fall over because of broken quills that littered the top.

Yes. So it just made sense if he opened it, right? Yes, of course.

It would save the world from the Great Garbage Precision Crisis. Or GGPC for short.

Aunt Petunia would be proud.

Harry shifted his weight on the bed and opened Draco's letter. He thought that the events at Diagon Alley, the day before yesterday would dispel the blond from writing.

_Yes, but did you actually believe that? _

Oh, his mind was a treacherous place.

The meaning is clear Potter. My apologies if your addled brain doesn't let you decipher it.

Are you sure that when the Dark Lord tried to kill you, he didn't take your brain with him?

Harry scoffed. Oh yeah, because that was such a witty answer. "Fool," he whispered softly. Crossing the room, and very aware that Allete the eagle owl was watching him intently, he picked up a quill and scribbled on the back of the parchment. No way he was unpacking his trunk for his spare parchment to write to Malfoy, of all people.

Once he was done, he carelessly stuffed it in the envelope. Allete hopped expectantly to him but Harry moved to Hedwig. The snowy owl held out her foot obediently. "Never mind," he said brusquely to Malfoy's owl. "Hedwig will take this one. Bloody Malfoy has no doubt sent you on two direct flights."

Allete glared at him reproachfully.

Harry was good at ignoring. Years of Snape had given him good practice.

"Hedwig, don't linger. Make sure Malfoy gives you a response, then leave. I'll be at Ron's. OK?"

Hedwig clicked her beak smartly in response and, in a flurry of white, was off.

Harry watched her until she was a speck on the horizon. The, he turned to Allete. "You're going to have to come with me. We're going a little East of here. Once Hedwig comes back, you can return."

Draco complacently sipped his tea. He rifled through yet another book and added it to the mountain beside him.

Long legs were swung over the arm of the cushy chair he was in. He picked up a book from the stack he had randomly compiled to his right when a soft whoosh from the entrance of the library announced the arrival of a post owl.

Draco smirked. "I knew Potter wouldn't be able to resist," he said to no one in particular. "Stupid sod, _no_ self-control. Must be a Gryffindor trait." He held out his hand expectantly for the incoming letter but, instead, received a sharp nip on his palm.

Blood seeped slowly, as if creeping from the wound.

"Fuck! Allete!" Draco turned in the armchair and saw that the owl was not Allete.

The owl was large and snowy, with specks of black sprinkled on the topsides of the wings. The breast was a pure white and each of the offending black spots seemed to bleed into the pristine white background. Large yellow eyes held a steady gaze and Draco felt his breath hitch.

It was a magnificent creature and Draco prided himself on being somewhat of a connoisseur of fine things.

He realized his palm was bleeding and began to suck on it as the initial admiration for the creature wore out and was replaced with something akin to annoyance. Stupid thing had nipped him! And it probably wasn't even for him.

"Lucius Malfoy isn't in," he told the owl. "Just leave it there and he'll pick it up." Draco waved a hand at the large oak table in the middle of the library.

But the owl hopped from the top of his armchair to the armrest. It dropped a crumpled piece of parchment and looked at Malfoy once more. Sucking his right hand, Draco folded his legs beneath him on the chair. He picked up the parchment.

Of course.

Potter.

This was Potter's owl.

This was Potter's owl?

Draco looked back at the snowy owl and, forgetting his wound, he gingerly stroked her feathers. The owl made no protest but did not seem to warm up to the touch either. "Aren't you a beauty? How did Potter ever get you for an owl?"

The owl glared at him, sticking out her head a little and clicking her beak. Ah, yes. That would explain the sharp nip on his palm: it was in response to his insult to Potter.

Draco relieved the piece of parchment of its crumpled misery and read with great fervor, as he absentmindedly sucked on his wound once more.

Why don't you say his name, you stinking coward? Scared of your **master**, are you? Typical, bloody, bastard you are.

It was amazing, really, the way that three simple lines, consisting of blatant insults nonetheless, gave Draco such a buzzing thrill that he could feel it in his very fingertips.

He stared at the letter.

When had this all started?

Back on the train. Potter had been all…weird. Weird, even by his standards.

Or, perhaps, it had started the last day of school?

Or maybe it happened during that fight in Dumbledore's office?

Or – Christ, he could go on forever.

If he was really honest with himself, this very crossroads had been waiting to jump up on him from the moment he had met Potter.

The moment that he had extended his hand of friendship.

The moment that he was being sincere in.

The moment he was snubbed by Potter.

I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.

The blood pounded in his ears as Draco relived the memory. Even today, after 6 years, it stung in the same way that it had when he was eleven. OK, so intimidation didn't work on Potter. But how was he to know that? Couldn't Potter have cut him some slack.

And the lame of excuse, 'but Potter was eleven too. What did he know?' was not going to work.

In the rage of the moment, Draco forgot about his wounded palm. He thought only of his eleven year old self and his wounded pride. His ego. His heart.

Not that he had really possessed one at any point of time, according to everyone who was not a Slytherin.

He seized a quill from the oak table and wrote swiftly, never one for messy handwriting. He would show Potter. He would mess with him as Potter had, so long ago.

Draco finished the letter and neatly sealed it once more.

To Scarhead, he wrote with a flourish. Yes, he would resort to childishness if need be. He really was a spoilt brat that way.

"Screw what it says on the front. Deliver to Potter and Potter only." Hedwig did not say anything. She merely accepted the letter in her beak and spread her wings for the return journey.

Could it be possible that Potter was dead? Because his owl seemed to be channeling his spirit.

Harry awoke with a start.

It was morning and he was sweating like hell.

This dream had been particularly violent. Harry couldn't recall any of the details. As usual, it was a jumble of heightened emotions and a torrent of yelling.

It was agonizing.

Harry looked over to the other bed; Ron's snoring seemed to soothe him. It was familiar. His breathing slowed as he remembered he was at the Weasley's.

Ron is here. Hermione came last night. Mrs. Weasley makes the best treacle tarts in the world. I'm OK.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Harry jumped but Ron, through all his snoring, didn't even budge.

Harry rolled his eyes and swung out of bed. He groped for his glasses but couldn't find them. Oh, screw it. You're not that blind, Harry.

He opened the door to a red-headed blur. Of course, this wasn't very helpful, as all the Weasley's had the same identification trait. All he could really vouch for was this was not Hermione.

"Harry?"

Harry peered and leaned through the doorway. Of course. It was Ginny.

"Morning," Harry said sleepily. Ginny stared at Harry's form holding the doorframe for support. He was wearing a shapeless grey t-shirt and striped pyjama bottoms that definitely clashed.

"You're…you're not wearing your glasses," Ginny managed. It was not that she hadn't seen him without glasses before. It was that she had never seen him without glasses looking quite this adorable. Harry was two inches taller than her and though his body didn't exactly scream "Macho man!" it was lean all the same. His slight build contributed to the way he looked so deliciously handsome this early in the morning.

Harry stifled a yawn with difficulty. "Couldn't find them."

"Why?"

"Couldn't see."

Ginny giggled. Harry smiled. "What's up?"

Ginny jerked herself back to reality and remembered what she was holding. "It's a letter. I think it's for you. Ginny chose her next words carefully. She didn't want to alarm him. "I think…it may be from Malfoy."

Harry's eyes immediately focused on Ginny. They seemed to become alert and guarded at the same time.

"Malfoy?" he asked in an inscrutable voice. "Why do you say that?"

"It's written To Scarhead on the front. Who else calls you that?"

Harry stared stupidly at Ginny. He couldn't see her but he could make out her expression. It was slightly bemused. What the hell did Malfoy think he was playing at, addressing a letter like that? Sure, Harry wanted to confront him. But not at the expense of everyone knowing! And Malfoy was going to ruin what he himself had started.

Idiot.

Ginny looked in confusion at Harry as he slowly took the letter from her. He seemed to be in deep thought and absentmindedly bit his lip, as he always did when he was thinking hard.

He glanced at the letter. Then, he started smiling. "This isn't from Malfoy. It's from Seamus. He said he'd write to me over the summer 'cause his mother's gone to Ireland and he's stuck in London."

Ginny stared in confusion. What? "To Scarhead?"

Harry gave a nervous laugh. "Yeah. Reckon he thinks its funny. You know Seamus."

But no, Ginny didn't know Seamus. And she didn't think Harry was telling the truth. "Well– "

"Thanks for this Ginny," he motioned to the letter. And with that, Harry shut the door.

Leaving a very confused Ginny.

Once inside, Harry slid under the covers and tore open the letter as quietly as he could but trying to make it fast. He checked that Ron was still snoring then finally got letter out. Golden sunlight streamed through the room so Harry could read despite the blanket on his head.

**Now, now Potter. Just because you hate my guts doesn't mean you go past the boundaries of pleasantries. I know that being around Weasley has made you vulgar, but don't subject me to that. If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still writing to me?**

He bolted out of the room and downstairs.

Ginny whipped around from making coffee and saw Harry race by. He had a quill in his hands and he ran outside. What on earth was going on?

Harry ran to the back and saw Hedwig perched upon the back door. Quickly he scribbled a response. In all his running, he had forgotten that he would have to send the reply back with Allete.

"See ya, Hedwig," he called and barely heard her hoot in response. Harry made a mad dash to his room and opened the cage he had hidden with a cloth. Allete slowly hopped out and took the letter dutifully in her beak.

Just as Allete left in a flurry of feathers, Ginny entered the room with Hedwig on her arm. Hedwig promptly flew over to Harry but Ginny stayed, slightly unsure, where she was. She looked at Harry, whose breath was faster and with a strange look in his eyes.

"Hi, er, Ginny," he greeted.

"Harry. Are…are you alright? You seem so…jumpy."

A little too quickly Harry said, "Fine. I'm fine. I'm good."

"If you're sure…"

"Sure. Sure I'm sure."

Hedwig hooted. Possibly in mild amusement.

It continued like this for the rest of August.

The strange correspondence initiated by Malfoy seemed to keep both boys on edge and on their toes.

Often, in disgust, Draco realized he searched the skies for the telltale form of Harry's owl or his own that would bring a fresh new challenge. A new way to break the monotony. He had never written anyone the way he had Potter and he was slightly surprised the amount of aggressiveness each of Potter's words seemed to pack.

Not that Harry was having a better time of it. Soon, he found he had just wanted to forget all this Mirror nonsense. This strange communication with Malfoy seemed to have lulled him into a false sense of security: his focus was now so much on the notes that he didn't want to look past them.

Of course, Malfoy had no clue about the Mirror. And Harry wanted to, no, needed to find out why Malfoy of all people affected him so.

Names were never signed, just envelopes bearing their names, and that too, for the owl's sake.

Draco regarded Harry's latest reply.

**I used to look at your face and think that something went terribly wrong but now I have written proof. You were dropped as a kid, weren't you? Just admit it. If I were there, I'd kick you so fast for that comment on Ron, you wouldn't know what hit you, you freak. I'm writing in hopes that maybe you'll drop dead and stop answering. But I know miracles don't happen everyday. **

**Surprise, surprise. Did you think I had died**? Was Malfoy's late response.

**Drats. I'll uncross my fingers now**, Harry wrote back

There was a point in time that Draco thought of Potter not as a boy anymore, but merely as the incoming notes. He seemed to be lured into something that he didn't know the way out of but he didn't mind that very much. There was something here, he realized. Potter's words bled something though he couldn't make out just what.

The notes to each other were blatant insults but slowly, they started backing off. Oh, there was nothing half-hearted about it. But it eventually evolved into something less vicious.

**Potter, if even a hair on my head comes to harm because you were counting on my death, my lawyers will sue you for every Knut you have.**

**Pun intended.**

**Get a life, Malfoy. You were always a hypocrite: don't tell me my language is vulgar when your innuendos are sleazier than a sales wizard at the World Cup. And I bet your hair is fake.**

**I'll have you know, every inch of my hair is very real. And your grammar is terrible, I would think seven years of schooling would have taught you that. **

**Piss off. **

**Gladly.**

**You're a real arse, you know that?**

**Yes, you mention that about once a week. Honestly, Potter, you need better insults. I could teach you. For a price.**

**I'll eat Bobutuber pus before I pay you to teach me anything. How about I teach you how to shut your mouth?**

**In case you haven't noticed, Potter, I'm not talking. Nor are you. Be-cause. We're. Wri-ting. Let-ters. Is that OK? Have I put it in the stupidest terms or does your Gryffindor brain need it more simplified? After this, all I can do is point and grunt. **

**So that's where Crabbe learnt how to speak. From you. Well it all makes sense now.**

**Good to see something does for you. **

**Oh, sod off Malfoy. **

**Get bent, Potter.**

It was now the night before September the 1st.

Potter had not responded for a whole week now.

Draco was sitting with his mother eating dinner.

He watched the clock, the way it slowly ticked, each movement drawing out his penance. Oh, what was Potter playing at? Why didn't he just hurry up and respond, didn't he realize Draco had better things to do with his time?

After dinner, Draco refused to go upstairs and brood by the window like some crazy lovesick idiot. He had much more important things on his mind.

Like.

Hmm.

Surely he could think of something more important than going upstairs and sitting by the window hoping that his death wish of Potter's reply arriving would be fulfilled?

He watched as his mother silently made her way to sitting room with a book. She had been very quiet after she recovered from whatever she had contracted. Lucius had been in the Manor for a total of two weeks before he'd had to leave again. I, Draco realized, should be spending my last evening with Mother.

And so he picked up a book from the library and followed his mother into the sitting room. He was not, actually, thinking of where Allete was at this point in time. Nor was he thinking about what Potter was doing.

And certainly, a witty response was the last thing on his mind.

Nobody, Draco countered, was that important so as to stay on his mind for longer than 5 minutes? That Potter should have taken the better part of three days worth of thoughts in Draco's subconscious was absolutely unacceptable.

Really, he was very good at denial.

Like, no, Pansy, that top does not look hideous on you. Or, yes, Crabbe, 3 plus 4 is 34.

Eyes narrowed. Bloody Potter.

Draco would set him straight tomorrow.

PXV35R57


End file.
